


The Way We Were Meant To Be

by LordJixis



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, And also skippable, Blood and Violence, But just in the way of confirming dating a magical skeleton doesn't count, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas Fluff, Dark, Depression, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, Everyone is a lil messed up, F/F, F/M, He likes to be dominated, I realized no pregnancy makes more sense than no babies, Introverted Reader, Mage Reader, Mentions of Necrophilia, Monsters are having a bad time, Multi, No Pregnancy, No really I swear it's a slow burn, POV Sans, POV Second Person, Papyrus Being Papyrus, Poor Sans, Protective Sans, Reader Is Not Frisk, Roommates, Sans Makes Puns, Sans has a power kink and you have power who knew, Shy Sans, Slightest bit of non-connish elements, Slow Burn, Something Big is coming, Sub Sans, The first chapter is just intense, Violence, Virgin sans, When it comes it shall be shameless, Women Being Awesome, reader is a lil messed up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:16:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 86,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7008172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordJixis/pseuds/LordJixis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As far back as you could remember, you had been trained with one goal in mind: To protect the human race from monsters that would one day return from the shadowy depths they were banished to. And then they returned.</p><p>And funny thing, they were peaceful.</p><p>So you're without purpose in a world that demands nothing from you. You make an offer to the town you live on the outskirts of - An offer that's one punny skeletons last resort.</p><p>And somehow, it helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A deal with the mage

 

 _It was hard._ Of course it was hard, it was _always_ hard – why would it be any easier up on the surface? Why would he ever, in a million years, think his life could get better? He had unreasonable sins to atone for, after all. Repeated homicide of a small child was really up there on the sin meter, as it turns out; not to mention every single other miserable choice he'd made in his shitty mistake of an existence. And so it was hard, so _so_ hard because he hadn't been able to find a job or anything at all from anyone and really the government tried, kinda, a little, but the money was too little and running out too fast. And him and Papyrus had just been evicted from their fourth apartment, ('Get out tomorrow you _fucked up_ _**things**_!') so everything was actually really really bad, this wasn't just his permanent pessimism.

He never would have done it otherwise. Who'd be crazy enough? A desperate man, is the answer. A scared, sad, _desperate_ man. He'd heard the whispers, the skeptical, _terrified_ whispers; she was a bit of a celebrity after all, (Not to mention eavesdropping was one of his favorite talents.) and it seemed the entire town was in uproar over a simple newspaper ad.

Maybe not even who did it, but more what it said... And the implications.

 

**ROOMMATE WANTED**

Secluded house in the hills, multiple rooms open.

5 bath, all amenities paid for, lots of land.

Payment type will be discussed in person – Money not wanted.

 

It was so simple, so basic. Just a small blurb, and a phone number as contact information at the bottom. Yet it was the last line that was throwing everyone for a loop, filling the town with gossip. Because, if not money, then what?

Wild, unsubstantiated rumors circulated of course.

It was no secret who the owner of the house was. A – local – celebrity, a mage. One of the handful still alive. She lived far from town, stayed away from prying eyes.

 

And he knew he should stay away.

 

Humans who practiced magic were dangerous. So very dangerous, and there were hate groups (turns out human mages didn't like when other organisms share their powers.) and there was violence and it was very easy to see that it was a bad idea.

Stupid easy, even.

Especially with the nature of the rumors. Some thought she wanted a test subject for her to hone her magic powers on. Some thought she wanted an apprentice, others, a slave.

 

But, although it was a bad idea, it was also the _only_ idea. Poor Papyrus had already had to go through the process of being kicked out, now for the fourth time. He was almost sure no apartment complex would take them now, and even if they did, the money they had left would only be enough for two months, at most. And he was sure wherever took them would have the same standards as the complex they were currently in. That is to say – not any.

He encountered a problem in that he did not actually have a phone. There was only a phone number as a way to contact her, no other information. For some reason, the logical alternative to this in his mind was to just go to her house; everyone in town knew were she lived, after all. This idea, while possibly inconvenient for her and possibly bad for his chances at moving in, was not the worst, all things considered. But Papyrus had never gotten his dream red convertible, or any car for that matter, which meant he was walking. This, too, was not _exactly_ the worst idea he had ever had (He'd had a lot of bad ideas.). Except for the fact that she lived up in the fucking boonies. And it was snowing. And he hadn't eaten since breakfast yesterday.

His fuzzy slippers were absolutely soaked, the bones underneath numb. This snow wasn't like the fluffy, pure snow he had experienced in Snowdin, this was wetter. Grayer. It smelled like decay and slid across his bones like it was trying to take something of him with it. In Snowdin he could walk on top of the snow, making travel easy, but here every footfall sank him into slushy mud, sending more chills up his _spine_. Sometimes he wondered if the surface was really all that much better than the underground. The underground certainly gets a point for snow quality.

If the kid ever decides to reset again he might just bargain with them to stay down there forever.

Surprisingly, he doesn't feel all that cold any more. This is actually really surprising because the entirety of him is soaked – _to the bone_ , and he was extremely cold up to a few minutes ago. Now he was actually... warm. Very warm. Sleepy, too.

He really should get to her house. He's on a mission here, but, well. He naps so often, a quick one wouldn't really hurt? Papyrus doesn't know how long he's supposed to be, so he won't be all that worried. And it's not like she's expecting him. Hell, for all the slushiness of the snow, it's pretty soft. If you can get over the moistness. Its not like he can get any _more_ wet though so...

Yeah...

A nap sounds _great_....

 

* * *

 

It was a shopping day, more for the virtue of leaving your house than anything else. It was suffocating sometimes with how big it was; and maybe that was an oxymoron, but it's how you felt, and going into town would help.

The town was actually pretty nice, all things considered. Though you were almost sure it was borne from fear, all the residents were exceedingly pleasant to you. Cheerful conversations followed you throughout the day when you ventured into town, sometimes even an invitation for dinner, or lunch, or brunch. You were a notoriously late sleeper, so breakfast was never mentioned, and the fact that the townspeople cared about you enough ( _feared you enough_ ) to know this warmed your heart.

Plus, welll... Maybe someone would reply to your ad. Company would be nice, in _both_ ways. You wiggle your eyebrows at yourself in the mirror, snorting out some air at your own stupidity.

And that was when you saw the scrap of blue on the side of your road. Which is pretty odd, since this entire road was the driveway to your house and as far as you knew, no one ever came up it. As friendly as the villagers were, they understood that you were a recluse by nature and wouldn't appreciate any unexpected arrivals to your abode, meaning your driveway hadn't seen any traffic besides your own car for... a very long time. So for someone to leave a scrap of fabric was... odd.

Which is why you investigated. While almost everyone was in favor of mages, there were always extremists, and what you wanted least in the world was a stupid extremist trying to mess with your house.

One thing became apparent almost as soon as you left your car, and it was that the scrap is a lot bigger than you thought. It was just half-buried under the unceasing snow, which meant it was put there recently. Really, you should've thought about why it wasn't buried completely sooner. With a suspicious glance around, you grabbed the fabric and pulled.

The object the fabric was encasing – since it had become obvious it wasn't just fabric there – was surprisingly light. It came out of the snow with a wet sucking sound, and you flipped it for a better look

 

and promptly SCREAMED YOUR FUCKING HEART OUT.

 

Really, of all the things you were expecting, two large eye sockets with mushy snow falling out of them was never _ever_ on the list. A skeleton was definitely the farthest thing from your mind, but there it was.

Fuck.

Immediately you took out your cell phone, intent on dialing 911 to report... a skeleton? On your driveway?

Second thoughts creep in your head. Yeah, most of the townspeople seemed to like you, but would they still if a dead body turned up on your driveway? Especially one that looked so unnaturally... clean? Preserved? That's kinda really weird, you have to admit. And it wasn't as though the townspeople had any real idea how magic worked, so anything unnatural could very easily be attributed to it.

You still for a second and examine the skeleton. It smells nothing like decay, or much of anything really, but it wasn't like you were going to get all close and personal with a dead body just to see how it smelled.

And that's when you noticed it. It was so faint you could _almost_ forgive yourself for missing it the first time. So faint it was obvious it was near death.

But the skeleton in front of you had a soul. It was alive.

The explanation was easy now. Monsters. You forgot sometimes. It wasn't as though they were ever _actually_ in your life. It was basically a fairytale, something heard of but never seen. Or perhaps a legend, a warning? A goal. You thought of your parents and their unceasing stories: Monsters, so vicious; bloodthirsty with the morals one could expect from those that killed countless humans in the last war. Magic, wielded by those would would never deserve it. How you were the only hope for humanity should they ever resurface.

 

And then they did.

 

And you were not needed.

 

Quite a wicked fairytale, that.

 

But here it was. Right in front of you, in the (haha) flesh. Your ancestors legacy. The reason you didn't – wouldn't – have to work, the reason your house stood tall and proud amid acres of land. The reason the villagers liked you ( _feared you_ ). The reason you were trained for a war.

Your fingers twitched. Would your ancestors want you to leave it? Would the mages that sealed them, sacrificing so much, so long ago, want you to leave it? Would your _parents_ want you to leave it? Leave it, him or her, them.... out here? To die? Your fingers twitched again. Would that be what the townspeople wanted? What the other mages alive today wanted?

Your other hand twitched.

 

Would that be what _you_ wanted?

 

It was almost an 8-point turn to be able to head the other direction on your one lane driveway. Shopping really wasn't all that important, you could last. The heater was on full blast, making you shift uncomfortably in your stuffy winter gear. One look at the skeleton beside you – in fucking _shorts_ , of all things – convinces you to grit your teeth and bear it.

You'd spent your whole life doing what everyone else had wanted, so call it an act of rebellion.

You're home quickly. This skeleton had actually made it almost all the way up your driveway, which was impressive, if nothing else. Once you carry him inside (He's about as light as you'd expect a skeleton to be. That is, light as fuck) you're at a bit of a loss. Some slush splooges out of his eye socket onto your floor, and you look at it in contemplation.

Since you didn't know the first thing about taking care of monsters (A lifetime of being bred to fight them wasn't exactly helpful right now) you decided to just do what you were supposed to do for humans and well... hope for the best.

This involved moving the wet clothes off the skeleton, which was pretty easy considering they were both light as fuck and a skeleton, so it wasn't like modesty was an issue. A quick towel wipe down later, you acquire some clothing for them. You struggled to get them in some sweats and a t-shirt, and when it was all said and done you smiled proudly at your handiwork.

You set them up on your most comfortable couch, right in front of a fireplace you were gong to get roaring in a second. A blanket was set over them, a pillow shoved under their head, and you let the pride of being able to do stuff wash over you.

A log was shoved in the fireplace, and after a second of deliberation, another followed. You rubbed your hands together, pulled a ball of fire out of one palm with the other, and gently placed it under one of your logs. It lit immediately, blazing up with warmth and light thanks to your superheated flame.

A sigh escaped you. Fire magic was never your preferred type, it didn't come naturally to you and always left you feeling the slightest bit cracked out, like the fire burned in your veins long after it left your hand.

 

Still better than the normal way to light fires. Quicker, too.

 

You took a long look at the monster on your couch. Their soul was blazing brighter now, a very good sign. It was a pretty blue, but a very very sad one. Chips and cracks littered it, and you wondered if all monster souls look like that. It almost made you feel bad for contemplating leaving it... but you refused. You didn't actually leave them.

You almost choked when you saw that his HP was 1. That was stupidly low, how was he even alive? You've lost more HP to the stairs in this house. (In your defense, there were a lot of stairs).

You turn away, unwilling to pry deeper. It was already weird, why make it weirder?

You curled up in a recliner by your guest, picking up a book and settling yourself in for a long night. You were determined to remain awake until your unexpected guest woke up, having a monster unattended in the house of a mage was just asking for trouble.

 

* * *

 

 

It was almost 4 in the morning when your guest finally woke up. It was slow at first, small fluctuations in his soul that had you looking up from your book. He rolled over, sleepily murmured. Then his eyes slid open for just a second, before shutting tightly against the light of the flames. He muttered something close to 'Grilly' or maybe 'grilldy', then rolled back over. The fire you had been tending cast soft shadows over his slumbering form. You waited for a second, almost sure he had gone back to sleep, when he suddenly sprung up. He basically flung himself into the corner of the couch farthest away from you, his eyes wide and black. It would've been threatening, almost, if his lower jaw wasn't trembling ever so slightly.

Vaguely, you notice his soul is hidden now. That doesn't really seem like an appropriate comment right this exact moment, so you go for an explanation instead.

“I found you passed out in my driveway?” It was blunt and came out as more of a question, and maybe more of an explanation would've been prudent but... this wasn't a situation you were prepared to handle. Even though you had hours to plan. Fuck, you hadn't even thought about that.

“I.. Uh..” The voice that emanates from the skeleton is deep and rumbling, but very scared. “You're ___?”

 

You frown at the mention of your name. For some reason, you hadn't expected him to know who you were. Your body tenses, and for the first time you feel defensive against this monster. Even though you had decided on the peaceful route, there was no telling if the monster in front of you would choose the same. If he knew your name, he probably knew your 'profession'. Maybe monsters too had been trained for a war once they came up here. Maybe this was all a ruse to catch you off guard, take out one of the few protectors of the human race.

You were so stupid.

 

“Um, I'm here about the roommate offer?” He says with utmost earnestness; lights appear in his eyes as he asks.

You stare at him for a good minute, processing this new information before bursting out laughing. He looks in turn stricken, sad, and then determined, but you're too busy dying to do anything about it.

You control yourself as quickly as possible, and as you're wiping tears from your eyes you gasp out. “I found you almost dead on my driveway and that's the first thing you say to me?”

His face turns into a... pout? Oh god, a skeleton having facial expressions, its too fucking late for this. Or early? “It's what I was coming up your driveway for in the first place!”

“W-what?” You stutter out. “Why didn't you call, like a normal person?”

He turns away, and you can swear you see his face turning the same color as his soul. “I don't have a phone.” It's spat out defensively, though you have no intention of making fun of him for it.

 

Not everyone has the same privileges.

“Okay, that's fine, but what about a payphone?”

He looks up at you in confusion. “A... payphone?”

“Yeah, don't tell me you don't know what a payphone is!” He looks helplessly at you, causing you to launch into a one sided discussion of payphones, their uses, their rise and fall and the mechanism with which they operate.

At the end, he seems a bit shell-shocked, but you think the gist of the enigma of payphones has been explained satisfactorily.

“Well, I'm sorry I wasn't aware of these magical devices.” His fingers wiggle as he says 'magical', and you wonder if it was supposed to be a joke.

“You should be.” You reply to him with a wink. You continue, hoping the impact of your next words wouldn't be too bad. “You aren't really qualified for the roommate position though, I'm sorry.”

His entire demeanor changes. His eye sockets return to the dark abyss they were right when he woke up, and his jaw, as well as his fists, visibly clench. “How so?” The words were strained, and you could feel the crackle of magic in the air. Your own rises up to the bait uncontrollably, and it takes a second of composing yourself before you can speak without any difficulty.

 

“You're lacking certain... equipment?” He looks at you like you've gone off the deep end, which, wellll, he's not wrong.

“Equipment.” He repeats back at you, in a deadpan. Silence reigns for just a bit too long before he continues, “You could just admit you're a **dirty racist**.”

The threatening tone of the last two words have the magic surging out of your soul and into the room defensively, his own coming up to meet yours. It's a war of auras, sparks lighting in the air around you from all the energy being exerted. Despite his HP, you can tell he's strong. Strong enough to hold his own against the veritable barrage of magic that would make almost anything else shit themselves.

It's a stalemate, both your energies swirling around, gradually increasing in intensity. Realizing that you should probably stop this before your house get wrecked, you grit out, “It's not racism, YOU VERY LITERALLY DO NOT HAVE THE PARTS.”

 

His magic comes to a standstill, though you can feel it hanging oppressively over you still. You follow suit, letting your magic calm. He's obviously expecting you to continue, so you barrel on, willing yourself to not be embarrassed. This was a talk you were going to have to have with someone, eventually, and you had... mostly steeled yourself for it. “I just really want someone to fuck and stuff cause it's pretty lonely up here and you're literally a skeleton trust me Ihadtoundressyoubecauseallyourclothesarewet I know these things.”

There's a beat of silence, and then another. He stares, you stare. He looks down at his borrowed clothes. You blush. He looks back up at you, quizzically. Opens his mouth, closes it. His face does an interesting array of things, before finally settling on grim determination.

“I think...” He begins. He only hesitates that once, the rest of what he has to say is said in a deep, sure voice. “I think you've got it all wrong, sweetheart.” His grin, the one that had been permanently stuck on his face parts just a bit, revealing... fangs? “You see, I have a very interesting type of magic,” He gets off the couch, starts heading towards you in a way that reminds you of a predator. “Ever heard of blue magic?” You don't get a chance to reply before his hand is covered in a soft, glowing blue. It's in the shape of a human hand, you can see all the creases and wrinkles that normally adorn the hands of the human race, yet right under it is his skeleton hand. He clenches it, and you watch in amazement. Attention to detail... is always a plus.

“You see,” He continues, “I think blue magic is just what you need. It's very customizable, you see.” He winks, he literally winks with his fucking skeleton face. When he opens it, the small dot of his pupil has been engulfed in a roaring blue fire, flashing at you with power that had you mesmerized. “Size, shape, alla that.” As you watch his face, a blue, glowing tongue lolls out of his mouth. You're stuck, hypnotized by this lewd display he's putting on for you. “And, since monsters procreate using souls, you won't need protection.”

That does it, this is hot, you can't even deal. Who cares if he's supposed to be your enemy, it's not like sex means anything. You're reaching towards his waistband uncontrollably when he slaps your hand away. You look up at him with pleading eyes, and he wags his finger at you. “Uh-uh, I need a deal first.” You stare into his face, giving this... oddly sexy? Skeleton your full attention. He takes that as a sign to continue. “I have a brother. He'd have to live here too.”

 

You frown slightly at this. “Uh, is there any way for uh... him to earn his keep?” As much as you did want this skeleton living in your house, or more specifically, your bed, freeloaders weren't really your thing.

He sends you a scathing look, but you stand your ground. “He's a great cook.” Is his simple answer. Your stomach chooses that specific moment to growl, and under any other situation you probably would've laughed at the timing. At this specific moment, it just reminds you of how much of a bad cook you were.

You sigh, and make up your mind. “Look, I'm not promising anything, okay?” He looks hopeful and angry all in one, and it's a distinctly unpleasant combination. “But we can try it out for a while, see how this goes. When do you want to move in?”

He looks enormously uncomfortable for a second. The glowing fire in his eye has been extinguished, leaving dots of white light that were considerably less sexy. The way they darted around was a bit endearing though, and you allowed yourself to examine them as he tried to formulate words. “Uhh... what time is it?” You glance at the clock you conveniently have over the fireplace, it reads 5:26.

“5:30.” You say. He glances out the window.

“In the afternoon?” He asks.

 

You shake your head. “Morning.” You correct.

He makes a strangled noise, and you can see the panic rising in him. “Would today be okay?” He struggles out.

“Yeah,” You respond, easily seeing he's stressed. No point in prolonging it anyway. “Would 1 work? I can pick you up,” You frown at the thought of him trying to trek up your driveway in the snow again. “But, I'd like to get at least some sleep.” He nods; While he's writing down his address on a strip of paper you helpfully provide you examine him. There's sweat beading on his skull. You wonder whats got him so stressed. Moreover, you wonder exactly how the fuck he's sweating. You might not be the smartest _ever_ but you are like 86% sure skeletons don't have pores.

“I gotta go, I left my bro for way too long.” He explains to you. “See you at 1.”

 

He practically flies out the door, and you follow him, about to offer a ride. I mean really, what's he going to do? Sprint all the way home?

When you open the door he's already gone though, and you watch your breath fog for a few seconds before going back in, feeling mildly stupefied.

It doesn't last long though, because it's definitely time for fucking bed. You'd been up so long it wasn't even funny, and fucking aura battling the skeleton didn't help.

You climb the stairs to your bedroom – in the attic of course. Best view, biggest space. Triangle roof. It was great. It even had a ladder up to it, which was actually the only way up to it but that only made it cooler, in your professional opinion. And maybe it was a little creepy that the ladder was hidden away in a closet, but hey, you weren't going to complain. You could be a recluse within your own reclusive home, the introverts dream.

You wrap yourself in various blankets, grab a pillow for snuggling purposes, and curl up. Sleep never comes easy, but it isn't particularly hard this time, and you're out reasonably soon.

 

You dream of your parents, telling you the evils of monsters. Telling you that the only hope was within you, within those like you. That the monsters would kill everyone, kill them and you and everyone you'd ever loved. Kill in brutal, inhumane ways, kill with magic that wasn't theirs. They would be beasts, full of hatred for humanity, full of hatred for the world, and full of power that could end it all. You couldn't speak, couldn't say anything, but they were gone eventually, fading into the desperate depths of your memories. You felt horrible about being relieved.

 

* * *

 

 

Sans was panicked when he appeared in his living room, but it all left him with a _whoosh_ when he saw Papyrus sitting on the couch. His head turned to look at Sans, and for a heartbreaking second Sans could see fear. But then the identity of Sans registered, and Papyrus's tired face morphed into one of his award-winning smiles, the smile that Sans lived for. That, in turn, was replaced with a stern expression.

“YOU ARE VERY LATE DEAR BROTHER.” His voice boomed throughout the room, and Sans flinched. He had known this would come, and had decided to tactfully omit the portion of the story where he had almost died. It's not like Papyrus needed anything else to worry about. “I WASN'T ABLE TO SLEEP.” Papyrus sighs out when he realizes Sans wasn't about to explain himself. There were bags under Papyrus's eyes, a rare occurrence, but one that had been happening with much more frequency since their appearance aboveground.

“I'm sorry Paps.” Sans laments. He really did feel horrible, but he had good news. That should be enough, right? “It took way longer than expected. I have good news though.” Papyrus looked up at him, eye sockets practically overflowing with sparkles, and Sans rejoiced in the fact that for once, he wouldn't have to hurt that hopeful face. “The lady said that we could be her roommates, all she asked was that you cook your delicious food for her.” He tactfully left out the other arrangements made, though his face still burned blue at the thought. What kind of bullshit had he gotten himself into?

Papyrus engulfs him in a sudden _bone crushing_ hug, and it's enough to smash away the doubts. “I WOULD LOVE TO COOK FOR THE NICE LADY! THIS IS AMAZING!” Sans wondered, privately of course, if you could really qualify as a 'nice lady'. A slamming from the floor above made him wince, and he went ahead and decided that you were certainly nicer than the majority of people. Not that that said much.

The slamming quieted Papyrus, which was undoubtedly the intended reaction. It was only 6 in the morning, really, he could almost understand.

 

Almost.

 

He swept his eyes around their barren apartment, landing on Papyrus when he was done. “She's gonna pick us up at 1 today, okay? We should probably be packed and ready for her.” He silently thanked anything watching over him that the timing was so good, as today was the day they were being evicted.

“That's a good idea, brother.” Said a very subdued Papyrus. While he hated seeing him like this, Sans had to admit it was for the best. No use causing trouble on their last day here.

Silently, the two brothers went about the task of packing up their meager possessions in the cold dawn air. Sans wondered vaguely if they would fix the heating system once some other poor person moved in, and Papyrus wondered enthusiastically if his new housemate would allow him to have a cat.

 

* * *

 

You had woken just a little late, but forgoing breakfast made up for the time lost. You figured you could just grab a bite in town after getting the skeleton (Who you just realized had never told you his name) and his brother. You had a bit of shopping to do too, since you hadn't been able to yesterday. Just simple things, not really necessities, but you went for the 'lots of small shopping trips' tactic.

It took a while to get down your driveway, and then a bit to get into town, but you managed to get to the Skeleton's place (Which was in the ghetto-est ghetto this town had to offer, you noticed) at 1:07, which really, was good enough for you.

They were stupidly easy to spot, but you suppose that comes with the territory of being skeletons. The stairs up to their apartment building don't look very comfortable, but that's where they were sitting anyway. The brother was significantly taller than the skeleton you met yesterday, and looked significantly happier too. Sweat was beading on the other skeletons skull, and he looked nervous as all get out. You guess that's your fault, being late might've made him think you wouldn't have come at all.

It was pretty obvious they were depending on this, based on the state of... well, everything around here. It was a part of town you almost never ventured to, simply because there was no reason. It was all run-down apartments, abandoned meth-dens, and overpriced gas stations with bars on the windows.

 

You pull up alongside them and wave, a wave that's hesitantly returned back at you. They have a box and a bag with them, and you screw up your face just a bit. Is that really all they own?

The shorter one, the one you had already met, is almost in the car (They both opted for the backseat, much to your disgruntlement) when it happens. You see it before either of them do, and really, it's not like you could just sit there and watch a rock fucking dome the skeleton with 1 HP. That would very literally murder him.

So you do something you almost never do, at least not in town. Magic pools in your legs, reinforcing muscles, tendons, bones. It aggravates the process of cellular respiration by increasing the electronegativity of oxygen, shooting ATP into your body. Your muscles, reinforced as they are, don't crumble when you force them to their full potential, and you spring out of the car with force you're sure dented it.

Not that it matters, as you snatch the rock out of the air, spinning to get a view of the perpetrator; it's not hard. Up until right that second, they had been spewing racism from the third floor. Now, they're just staring, confused.

You don't give them time to realize they should be afraid. Before you land, you chuck the rock, twisting for maximum power. Its flying through the air as you land, immediately springing up to follow it, the concrete beneath you bearing the immense burden of the power magic gives you. Any cracks you leave will undoubtedly blend in seamlessly with the uneven, old texture the sidewalk already sports, meaning you won't have to worry about property damage.

The rock you hurled slams straight into his head, knocking him over; you follow right behind, landing on top of him. You grin wickedly, forcing magic to your teeth to elongate them, an intimidation tactic you'd thought would never be relevant after the monsters ended up being peaceful. Sharp, pointed, they glint in the light from the window.

“If I ever see you being a racist piece of shit again, **I will end you.** ” You try to emulate the skeleton with the last bit, unused to this kind of coercion. It comes easily though, and right before he passes out you can see pure fear in his eyes. Perhaps it's a little sick, but you're filled with satisfaction.

 

You stand up, off of him and look around. His place is dingy, rank, and has used needles littered in various corners. Classy. At least no one will ever believe him. You shut his window, taking a moment to wave and smile at the skeletons waiting for you, careful to not show your teeth. The magic hasn't quite dissipated yet.

You let yourself out of his home, making your way down the stairs like any normal person. You occupy yourself along the way by trying to figure out the origin of various stains on the walls.

When you finally breach into fresh air again, it's absolutely wonderful. You hadn't realized how disgusting the air was until it was gone.

Your car is still running, the two skeletons in it shielded from your view by your windshield. You start to wonder if they had even seen the rock, or if they understood what you had just done. Maybe you were now that weird person that just jumps into other peoples homes. Maybe you were now the horrible mage who's ancestor had utilized magic to imprison them.

You hop in the car without looking at either of them, and it's the tall brother that speaks first.

 

“I AM NOT QUITE SURE WHAT JUST HAPPENED.” His voice is loud, so loud, but not distinctly unpleasant. Still, you flinch the slightest bit at the sheer volume; he continues anyways. “BUT I BELIEVE YOU JUST STOOD UP FOR US.” You refuse to correct him by acknowledging that you'd just saved his brother's life. “FOR THAT, I AM VERY THANKFUL.”

It was... nice. To be thanked. You didn't expect that, actually.

You can already feel exhaustion seeping into you though, insidious and unceasing. You weigh the pros and cons of continuing with your plans of getting food and groceries... and come up with mostly cons.

 

Well then.

 

Time to go home. You wondered if the skeletons had ever called that crappy apartment home. This brought you to a realization, and it involved the fact you still didn't know either of their names.

“So, uh.” You started awkwardly, “I just kind of realized I don't know your names?”

“HOW RUDE OF ME TO NOT INTRODUCE MYSELF!” The louder one exclaims. His voice is actually pretty useful right now, as it's keeping you from falling asleep at the wheel. Never a good thing, that. “I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS, EX-ROYAL GUARDSMAN AND SPAGHETTORE EXTRODANAIRE!”

You mull over that for a second, mentally deciding that no, you would not call him 'The Great Papyrus'; neither would you ever tack on 'spaghettore' extraordinaire, especially since you were a bit perplexed as to the meaning behind that title. Just Papyrus was odd enough, thank you very much. For some reason, the name sounded Egyptian to you.

 

You let your thoughts dissolve into nothingness as the quieter skeleton started talking. “The names Sans.” Short, simple, but wow did it spark some connections in your brain.

“You guys are named after fonts?” You ask incredulously.

“No need to act so af _font_ ed.” Sans quips. You groan, resisting the urge to throw your head down on the steering wheel. Safe driving and all that jazz.

 

“SANS!” Papyrus yells, or possibly just speaks in a Papyrus pitch. “DO NOT PUN AT THE HUMAN WHO IS NICE ENOUGH TO LET US LIVE WITH HER!”

“Sorry bro, didn't mean to _pun_ ish you guys.”

A strangled squeal exits Papyrus, and you thank your lucky stars that you're almost home. You do not, in any way shape or form, have the strength to deal with puns and loud voices right now.

 

You pull up into your parking spot and politely open the door for the brothers to pile out of your car. Sans looks at you skeptically, but mutters a quiet 'thanks'. Papyrus is much more enthusiastic with his show of appreciation, which is something you can get behind. You would have a much easier time getting behind it if you were better fed and well rested, but this is life.

Once you let them into your home, you turn and give a short and simple speech. “To tell you guys the truth, I am beat. I'm going to go and nap for the foreseeable future. Literally any room but the one in the attic is open, I don't care which one you choose, help yourself to the food in the fridge, watch TV, I dunno, just don't bother me while I'm sleeping.” It's a spiel, really, but if you don't force all the words out at once they probably won't ever escape your mouth. At least, not before sleep seduces you.

“WHILE I DO NOT APPROVE OF THIS 'NAPPING' YOU AND MY BROTHER SEEM SO FOUND OF, I THANK YOU FOR YOUR HOSPITALITY.” Polite was a plus. Despite his loud voice, you had a feeling this particular skeleton wasn't that bad.

You were already off to your bed, so if Sans had something to say, it was lost in your eagerness to get to the infinitely pleasing lack of anything that embodied sleep. You slipped into the closet after making sure neither of the skeletons were anywhere close enough to see, climbing up the ladder with an urgency that could only come from the desperate need to fall into a coma.

You literally belly flopped onto the bed, tore off your clothes, and hunkered down against the cold seeping in from the window you refused to close.

 

No matter how exhausted you were, getting to sleep was never easy. But this time was better than most times, and you faded into fuzzy darkness as quickly as one could hope for.

 

* * *

 

 

You were sailing, sailing, sailing. Open, clear water, as calm as you felt. Until it wasn't. Waves smashed the boat, smashed you, tore holes in all the sails. You call for your crew, to help, to do _something_. Sadly, they were all skeletons. You laugh as water drained into your lungs, because you literally had a _skeleton crew._

You woke up gasping in water that didn't exist, spluttering when air entered your lungs instead. It was distinctly uncomfortable.

You gulp some water down the correct tube, then dress in a big shirt and pajama pants, eager to get out of your bed. You also had guests (roommates?), which added to your sense of urgency.

Time to face the day, or more specifically, the evening. You jump down the length of the ladder up to your room, landing with a small _whoosh_ of magic to cushion the impact.

 

You open the door.

 

And come face-to-face will a skull.

 

You close the door.

 

What the fuck.

 

You take a deep, steadying breath, and open the door again. Sure enough, there's Sans, eye sockets creepily devoid of anything. You have the urge to stick your fingers into them.

You resist.

 

“Look, I appreciate what your doing for us here.” He starts. Gratitude is good. “But I would also appreciate if we could keep our little arrangement a secret from my bro.” This is something you can understand. In the few moments you had known Papyrus, you had gotten the feeling he was a five year old in a huge skeletons body. No reason to tell him his brother was doing the hanky-panky with their landlord for boarding privileges. You tell Sans as much, and he nods, but you have a feeling his eyes are trained on you the whole time. His eyes that are not currently visible in his skull.

It's creepy, to say the least. Somehow, he decides it has to be even creepier, because he continues after his nod. “And if you ever hurt Papyrus in any way, shape, or form, **you're gonna have a bad time.** ”

There's the fucking deep-ass growl again. Sadly, you have some issues with being threatened, especially by someone who you're letting live in your house, and this manifests itself in some unpleasant ways. Unpleasant for him, anyway.

 

“Look,” You start out, your voice slithering from your mouth like it was poisonous. “I get that you care about your brother, and that's why you're doing this. That's admirable.” Your hand shoots out suddenly, magic visible in a writhing miasma around it. You're careful to not let it hurt Sans when you wrap your hand around his throat and slam him against the hallway wall, but you do make sure it's horribly impressive. You notice vaguely that the blue magic forms a sort of buffer to protect his skull, answering your earlier question of exactly how he was alive. You can tell it's weak though. One hit with _intent_ , and the skeleton in front of you was dead. “But, **you will not threaten me in my own home,** _ **after I let you live here.**_ ” You take a second, breathe in, out. Wonder if he realizes you emulated him to do that voice. Wonder if he has trouble breathing with your hand wrapped around his cervical vertebrae. Even if he doesn't, he sure looks uncomfortable, so mission accomplished. “Remember, I can kick you out at any time.”

It was mean to dangle that threat over his head, but restraint was never quite your thing.

 

You let him go, and he slumps to the floor, rubbing his neck bones. You think that he's probably contemplating straight up attacking you, but much to the favor of both of you, he doesn't.

 

Good skelly.

 

You figure at this point, you have to be the one to extend an olive branch. You do so in the form of an offer for a grand tour. Slowly, non-threateningly, you extend your hand (The one not experiencing slight glowing due to residue from magic usage.) to help him up. He doesn't take it, which isn't surprising.

This is okay, he doesn't need to like you.

 

“Where's Papyrus?” You question. He shoots you a look, and you sigh. “For the tour you fucking ass. I don't want to give that shit twice, this is a big house.”

He grumbles, but returns to staring at the ground. You find Papyrus in the kitchen, which is actually pretty amazing considering you've used quite a bit of magic and didn't have breakfast, leading to you being famished.

He's actually already cooking. You're thinking your favorite is definitely the tall skeleton, despite his voice.

“Hey, Papyrus! Do you think you could spare me any of that? I'm a hazard in the kitchen and I forgot breakfast.” You know full well that this was his claim to living here, and that yes, he would spare you some. Being polite never hurt anyone though, so you keep your manners.

“I WOULD LOVE TO SPARE YOU SOME OF THIS FOOD. IT IS FRIENDSHIP SPAGHETTI AFTER ALL, THE MOST WONDERFUL FOOD IN EXISTENCE.” When you were expecting his loud voice it was bearable, but man. You'd have to look up words other than 'loud' to describe the absolute eardrum-bursting terror that was Papyrus's voice.

 

Spaghetti sounded good too, and when he presented it to you, you didn't bother leaving the kitchen. A huge plate was gone in ten minutes flat, and you had to restrain yourself from grabbing more. A stomachache would be no good.

The spaghetti was really good, as far as you could tell. There was very little actual tasting though, just inhaling. Still, you turn to Papyrus, intent on complimenting him, “That was really good! Thank you!”

“WOWIE HUMAN, I AM SO GLAD YOU LIKED IT!” He's so eager and animated... His deafening voice might be a little hard to get used to, but you could feel yourself appreciating this skeleton. “IT WILL BE THE GREAT PAPYRUS'S HONOR TO COOK FOR YOU WHENEVER YOU WOULD LIKE, HUMAN!”

Now that, that was something you could _definitely_ appreciate.

 

Sans, who you had been basically ignoring up until now (cordial wasn't exactly your thing.) decides to speak up, much to your discontent. “So, didn't you promise a tour?” He sounds miffed about something or other. Looks like that's where all Papyrus's moodiness went.

“I believe I did, yes.” You respond, before turning and looking at Papyrus. “Would you like to join us on a grand tour of my humble abode?”

“I WOULD LOVE TO! THOUGH I BELIEVE THERE IS NOTHING 'HUMBLE' ABOUT IT.” You wince at that, very fresh memories of their previous living conditions flashing in your mind. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say.

 

You continue on anyways. You guide them around the ground floor, where the living room is situated by a sliding glass door, opening to a yard bathed in darkness. You glance out and turn to the brothers, “Does leaving the outdoors portion of the tour to tomorrow sound good?” They both nod, though Papyrus does it markedly more enthusiastically.

You assume the kitchen had already divulged it's secrets to them, so you present the dining room. Papyrus 'ooh's and 'ahh's at your table, which hasn't been used in years and is large enough to fit a small army. After Papyrus is done, you lead them down the hallway. “These are just a bunch of empty rooms, that's the laundry room,” You explain while letting them peek into their depths. ”But that ones a bathroom.” You turn and look at their skeletal figures, and continue awkwardly, “Not that you would... need it?”

“I ASSURE YOU, HUMAN, THE GREAT PAPYRUS KEEPS FANTASTIC HYGIENE.” Okay, they shower then. That's positive. It would really be prying too much to ask if they... excreted in any way, and if so _how_ , so you clamp down on your curiosity and continue the tour.

 

Upstairs is just more empty rooms, you show them each in turn. Papyrus literally screeches when you show him the one on the corner, with a balcony and large sliding door. You mentally mark that off as his room, and guide him to the nearest bathroom, which is the only one with just a small standing shower.

What can you say, you were a sucker for a nice hot bath.

Papyrus doesn't seem to mind though, not that you thought he would. It's also the only one with a shower head tall enough to accommodate him.

Sans chooses the room right by Papyrus. He looks at you like he expects you to object, but you just shrug. Really, why should you care?

 

After showing the rest of the rooms on that floor, you turn and make a grand gesture with your arms. “And that is the grand tour! Any questions may be directed at me presently.”

Papyrus raises his hand for reasons entirely foreign to you, but you still make a big show of picking on him.

“HUMAN, I NOTICED THIS HOUSE HAS THREE FLOORS AND I ALSO NOTICED YOU DID NOT SHOW US THE THIRD FLOOR.”

 

You sigh, but relent. You hadn't really thought you could keep your room a secret, but you were a private person and it would've been preferable. It was a stupid thought anyways, what if they needed you for something while you were there?

“That's my room, I refurbished the attic into a pretty cool bedroom if I do say so myself, but I'd prefer to not extend the tour up there. It's messy right now, and I'd like it if you guys stayed out of it anyway.”

“THAT'S FINE HUMAN, I AM GLAD YOU ARE THE OWNER OF SUCH A COOL ROOM!”

 

You thank him, then help the brothers get settled in their rooms. By help, you mean you attempt to line up Papyrus's action figures in a way that pleases him while Sans watches you with freaky-ass eyes and does literally nothing to unpack his stuff.

Not that he seems to have much, or anything, really. Both the bag and box they had with them when you got them are slowly being unloaded into Papyrus's room, no indication of anything belonging to Sans.

You eye the T-shirt he's wearing, realizing it's the same one you dressed him in after you found him. The only difference is a large black sweatshirt (with the fluffy hood up) he's layered on it, and gloves. This leads you to the realization you never returned his clothes.

 

“Hey, Sans. I left all your stuff in the dryer earlier and forgot about that until now, sorry if they got wrinkled.” You glance at the shirt he's already managed to spill sauce on. “Not that I think you'd care.”

“S'was wondering about that. Thanks.” He doesn't leave, and you roll your eyes as you get the message. You make a show of standing and stretching, before turning and speaking to Papyrus.

“I'm going to go take a shower, okay? Can you handle the rest without me?”

“I BELIEVE THAT CAN BE ARRANGED HUMAN, ENJOY YOUR RITUAL MOISTENING.”

You visibly flinch at the words 'ritual moistening' because really, what the fuck. Your plan goes off without a hitch though, as Sans does everything but follow right behind you. You walk farther down the hallway, past where the entrance to your room was to the bathroom that was your designated favorite. Sans receives your most unimpressed look as you enter the bathroom, and he smiles in a way that was just on the wrong side of wicked.

 

Showering went smoothly, almost as smooth as your legs when you finally exited. You were in your pajamas in short order, excitement about tonight thrumming through your veins.

It was really your fault, but what else to think of in the shower besides the monster that was apparently the grandest sex toy ever? It had been a long while since you got some, becoming a recluse is generally not conducive to having sexual satisfaction.

You wander over to Papyrus's room, and find that both skeletons have vacated. The living room is your next bet, so you start making your way down the stairs. You almost trip over him before you realize he's there, sleeping skeletons on your stairs isn't really what you're used to.

 

This wakes him up, and his face is unguarded.... and actually pretty cute? Before he snaps to attention and looks at you.

“Tonight?” Is all he says, and you nod happily.

“I'll allow you in my room for this purpose alone.” You wink, but you feel the playfulness is lost on him as he turns away.

He picks himself up off the floor, and this time you tactfully keep your hands to yourself.

“I'll see you after Papyrus goes to bed.” He says, still turned away. You frown the slightest bit but murmur an affirmative.

 

You go and say goodnight to Papyrus; he returns the favor with fervor, then retire to your room with a good book.

* * *

 

Sans refused, absolutely, with all his heart to avoid this. Because he wanted a good life for Papyrus. Because he wanted a _safe_ life for Papyrus.

Because that's what Papyrus deserved.

And, despite all his misgivings about you (And there were very many) this had been their best first day in a house. This is the best house they've even ever been inside on the surface.

So yeah, it was worth it. Sans was no stranger to sacrifice, and this was a pretty great deal, all things considered.

 

So when Papyrus went to bed, there was only the barest amount of dawdling that could be expected from him. He got some water, drank it, gave a second thought and filled it back up to take up to your room. An offering might appease you, as there had been some bad blood today.

Not entirely his fault, but it wasn't like he could blame you either. The fact you constantly hid your soul meant he couldn't get a read on you like he could everyone else, though he did certainly understand. His was hidden too, but that was because he had things to hide. Did you? This was... a weird situation, to say the least, he could understand keeping secrets from two monsters who just moved in today.

The fact it was also the best situation they'd been in after reaching the surface was sobering.

 

He walked to the door that hid the ladder to your room. Once he shut it behind him, he willed the glass up to the top and followed it.

There was another door here, after the landing, which is something he was grateful for. He needed to steel his nerves and give you what you wanted, and Papyrus might finally have a chance for happiness.

Eventually, he opened the door. You were curled up on a _huge_ bed, and he wondered for probably the fifth time where you got the money to afford all this. You glanced up, eyes piercing in the cold light.

 

He failed, just for a second. His legs turned to something hard and squishy, unable to hold him as they usually did. He stutter-stepped towards you, and he could tell you noticed.

He really hated that, how much you noticed.

 

But then he had his mask on, and his face settled into a smile that must've stopped conveying joy a very long time ago. His voice floated out from between his teeth, husky and deep, because he was the best actor he knew. “Got you some water, figured you might need it.” He winked, and it was so fucking easy he felt like he could actually do this.

You smiled, and it was all white teeth and pink lips, and again, he felt like he could actually do this. Really, as far as someone to give something this important to... well, you certainly weren't _un_ attractive. It was enough.

 

Confidence was key, always, and so he didn't falter when he willed the water to your bedside table. He crawled smoothly on your bed, consciously opening his mouth to reveal the blunt fangs you had so liked earlier.

You opened your arms for him, inviting him closer. He fell into them smoothly, because it was so easy to do everything right when he wasn't really there. Detachment is the best therapy, but today he might need a double dose.

He ghosted his lips by your face, as though he was going to kiss you, but he didn't. If only one thing could remain sacred, it would be his first kiss.

What can he say, he was a romantic in his non-existent heart.

Instead, he went for your neck. His 'lips' pressed against it gently and it was warm, so warm. It was easy to press subdued kisses along it, easy to make them linger as you curled around him.

 

It was less easy when your lips found his cervical vertebrae, mirroring his actions as you pressed kisses to each and every one. At the last one you could reach, you nibbled the slightest bit, and he almost lost it. It felt nice, really really nice, but it also felt so wrong.

 _For Papyrus._ The thought steadied him while your mouth was doing its best to unravel him. _For Papyrus._ It was easy to run his hand up your side, ghost over the sensitive skin above your ribs. Close enough to tease your breasts, but not close enough for any actual satisfaction.

When one of your hands came up to his ribs, slowly stroking them as they wrapped around his body, he gasped. The mouth that had up until then been so chaste in planting kisses down your neck latched on, trying to muffle his needy noises in the skin that was so very warm.

 

You continued, delicate fingers brushing across his shoulder blades. He bit down, just the slightest bit, but you gasped and wrapped your hand all the way around a rib. Without any control whatsoever, he ground into you, his stupid magic ecto-dick already present without his consent.

Your other hand joined the party at this, leaving you unsupported amid multitudes of pillows. He could appreciate how you looked, hair splayed out around you like you deserved a halo in its place. He wondered if you did, if you were really a good person and this was just a bad situation. Everyone had their flaws and foibles, and he was an optimist at heart.

He thought that was probably why he was so sad.

 

He didn't realize your eyes had opened until you were speaking, voice lilting in concern. “Is everything okay?”

He hadn't expected that, really, and just like all the other times someone had asked that all the reasons that no, it was not okay, bulged at his lips.

 _For Papyrus._ “Everything is great.” He tried to say it with a smirk, but even he could tell it was wobbly around the edges.

 

He was on his back in a second, and you loomed over him, eyes inquisitive. “Is it?” You said, and you sounded sad. Or maybe he was sad and so that's all he heard.

He was going to mutter an affirmative, plaster back on the fake smile – it was obvious he was much worse at hiding behind other ones, but then your hand started playing with his waistband. His body did a confusing thing that involved both rubbing into your hand and shrinking away, and any coherent thoughts were slammed into the wall.

He could feel his face flushing, feel all his control being disintegrated under such a simple touch. It was okay, it would be fine as long as he just detached himself again and had you do all the work.

 

And then it all came crashing down with four simple words from you. “Are you a virgin?”

 


	2. Mistakes Were Made, Atonement Is Far Away

“Are you a virgin?”

 

Sans visibly panicked at those words, confirming what you had already suspected. You sat back on your heels, never taking your eyes off of the skeleton under you, trying to process. He made a strangled noise and reached after you with his hands, which you caught midair. They clasped yours rigidly, like you'd just slip away if he didn't.

Hah, wishful thinking.

You knew, deep in your heart that he was death-gripping your poor hands because him and Papyrus needed this. This was a last, desperate resort. This was him giving up his own body for his brother. This was a sacrifice of epic proportions, a sacrifice you had all but demanded of him. You felt the tiniest bit queasy, knowing what you had almost done; it was one thing to have consenting sex for a payment type, it was a whole other thing to give up yourself because it was the only way to protect your brother.

A wave of understanding washed over you as he started speaking, “It doesn't matter!” At least he wasn't trying to lie to you, not that it would've been very convincing at this point. “I don't care, I'll do whatever you want to keep me and Paps here, really.”

He must've seen something in your face when he said that, because he continues with a voice that's gone past the rasp of desperation, “Aren't virgins special? Desired? Doesn't it make this better?”

 

You're sure there are bruises on your hands now, but you keep them entwined with his, simply because you think that's what he needs. Maybe it's what you need too, because the queasiness has become a hard ball in your stomach, twisting your insides into bitter knots.

A deep breath steadies you, gives you time to think. You have to pick your words carefully, you already knew Sans could be downright volatile, which was really not what you needed right now. He whimpers, a soft, sad noise, and you realize that fuck thinking, time was of the essence, any missteps in your words could be corrected, but the purgatory he was currently hanging in wasn't acceptable any longer. Another sad noise like that and you were sure your soul would snap in half, crumble over him like so much glitter and garbage.

“I can't just take that from you Sans.” You flinch at his face, quickly amending, “I won't kick you guys out!” He relaxes so much at that you wonder if he got stress fractures from what you've put him through. The hard knots haven't untied themselves, and you grimace at the heavy feeling. God, this was all such a mistake. “I also won't do this to you. It's okay, I think... I think I understand you a bit more after today... and I think I respect you.” You remove yourself from his being, and he sits up.

 

It feels better to be on even ground, the two of you looking at each other in front of your huge windows, snow flying in flurries as a back-light.

“I'm sure I can think of other ways for you to earn your keep.” You smile, but he doesn't return it. At least you think he doesn't; he is smiling but you don't think it means anything. In fact, he looks sort of shell-shocked.

 

You find you don't particularly like how it looks on him.

 

You continue talking, your voice quiet as calm seas, as reassurances drip from your lips like saline solution. “I don't think I really understood that this was something you _needed_ , you know? In my mind, the person who came to me would do it to hoard some money for some big investment later down the road, or maybe they'd be someone who'd just want to live in a house like this, or maybe even someone who just wanted to figure me out.” Your lungs rattle as you draw in breath, but with every word the knots in your stomach untangle. His face is different now too, better, softer. “I didn't think anyone – especially a virgin – would come to me out of desperation.” You smirk and side-eye the covers by your bent knee, “Stupid, huh?”

You feel like maybe you've gone on a rant now, but you have to get it all out before this moment ends. “I would never feel comfortable forcing someone into something like this, and I'm sorry you felt as though you had no choice. I'll never hang the threat of being kicked out over your head again, okay?”

He looked... not happy. But he didn't look sad or scared. It's an improvement.

“Thanks.” As he said it, it looked like all the structural support in his body crumbled at once. He was left limp, curled up over crossed legs, and while you knew you shouldn't, the urge to touch him welled up in you.

Restraint wasn't exactly a character trait of yours, but you were very gentle as you reached out and gently brushed his shoulder. His eyes were wide and scared when they looked up at you, and you cursed yourself.

 

Don't touch the skelly, the skelly doesn't want you to touch him.

 

In an attempt to save some form of comfort, your mouth fell open and barely thought-out words fell into the silence. “If you're tired, you can go to bed. No reason for you to stay here.”

“Don't I still have to earn my keep somehow?” He says it strangled, and you think you'd feel quite a bit better 6 feet under, where you can never make him so distressed again.

“No, it's been a long day. Thanks for the water, that was enough.”

His jaw clenches, but he nods, and he's out of your room so fast there's no time for you to even utter a farewell, or goodnight.

 

Sleep was far away, and it seemed wallowing in self-disgust was inevitable. It was snowing heavily, but you shoved your window open as far as it could go anyway. While the windowsill wasn't exactly wide enough to be comfortable, you felt like you deserved the metal stabbing into your thighs.

Your bare legs hung down below the square of light that was your window. White flakes fell down like they were in a hurry to get to the ground, and you couldn't help but feel bad when flurries stuck to your legs and melted instead. The cold water drained in rivulets down to your toes, where it dripped off into the darkness that hung heavy below you.

 

You think if you had a chance to go back and redo everything, you would.

 

But that's silly.

 

You, better than anyone else, understand that second chances don't exist.

 

It's a long time before you withdraw your legs from the cold, by the time you do they're freezing and covered in a slick sheen. It's not enough, and if you had it in you, you would melt right off the windowsill like so much snow.

But life goes on, and you have to go on too, so you dry your legs and turn off the lights, and when you curl up under the covers it takes a very long time for sleep to find you.

You dream that you're laughing and laughing and laughing, and you can't stop because it's someones job to keep you laughing, and you can't see them, or anything really because your eyes won't open, you're laughing too hard and now your crying and your throat is raw because you can't stop.

You wake up when blood, metallic and thick, starts pouring from the corners of your mouth.

It's dark.

You retch, chug the water Sans had so nicely brought you, and promptly fall back asleep.

 

* * *

 

You wake up late, later than usual even, because you always wake up late. Snow is still falling outside, muffling any noises that may or may not be present.

You don't want to get up.

So you don't.

The cocoon of warmth you have barricaded yourself in is comfortable, soft. It's almost easy to trick yourself into thinking you could lay there forever.

Almost.

 

Eventually a variety of bodily needs coerce you into falling out of bed, the hard floor waking you up painfully. Still, you lay there for a second, face pressed up against polished wood.

Time to face the day.

The first stop is the bathroom, where your bowels are emptied, your teeth are brushed, and your face is cleaned. Once all of that has been taken care of, you creep into the hallway to find it empty.

You don't really want to ask Papyrus for breakfast, but the instant noodle streak you had been on before this really needs to stop. That leaves acquiring food in town, which is probably what you should do, considering your plans to go shopping have been foiled for two days straight.

 

Set on that course of action, you return to the seclusion of your room. The bed is tempting, blankets flung about like they're waiting for you to crawl back in, but you can't just spend the rest of your life in bed.

Or maybe you could.

But there were a lot of things you could do that you really shouldn't, so you turn away from temptation and towards your bursting closet. Normal human clothing was easy enough to wrestle yourself into, and you only tore out most of your hair when you tried to brush it.

It was good enough, a decision that was backed by an urgent growl from the abdominal region.

 

You make your way down to the first floor, where Papyrus is watching cat videos on your T.V. Okay then, a taller-than-fuck skeleton watching furry little babies on your T.V. isn't exactly something you'd ever thought you'd see.

“Good morning Papyrus!” You call to him. He startles and whips around, a sheepish look and dusting of orange on his face. The TV flips off, and you wonder exactly why he would attempt to hide the cat videos.

“GOOD MORNING HUMAN! WOULD YOU APPRECIATE FOODSTUFFS?” It's a little bit easier to deal with his voice now, and you're thinking getting accustomed to it won't be as hard as you had first thought.

“Thanks Papyrus, I was actually planning on getting breakfast in town though.” Suddenly, a thought that you deem great and possibly redeeming for your character pops in your head. “Would you like to come with me? I have some shopping to do and it would be great if I could pick up some stuff you guys would like.”

“ANYTHING YOU GET US WILL BE APPRECIATED TO THE FULLEST HUMAN! THAT IS MUCH MORE THAN THE OTHER HUMANS HAVE DONE FOR US.” You bite your lip, hard. There was something so inordinately sad about how he said that, his voice so optimistic and childlike, the words revealing the tragedy they already had to go through.

The tragedy you came so close to continuing.

It's a struggle to capture air in your lungs, but it does come, and a resolution forms in your head, stark and strong against the swirling depths of your mind.

 

You were going to help them.

 

You were going to make it better.

 

Maybe you couldn't right every single wrong that had befallen them, but you could atone for some of it. You could give these beings a better existence.

 

You _would._

 

So when Papyrus turned away, looking shy and just a little bit scared, you pursued it. “What's up?”

“WELL, HUMAN...” You waited patiently as he struggled. “YOU SEE, WHEN I CAME TO THE SURFACE I BECAME AWARE THAT YOU HAVE ACTUAL ANIMALS THAT MAY BE KEPT AND CARED FOR AS PETS AND I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WAs wondering if possibly I could acquireoneofthesecreatures?”

At the end, his voice died down to a volume you were not aware he could manage; all his words, normally so distinct, blurred together into a mishmash that made you wonder how many people he had asked for this, and how many people had said no.

Personally, you couldn't see any problem with it. The house was large enough, you had extraordinary amounts of money to burn through, and maybe a little bit of fluffy company would do you good.

When you gave Papyrus the affirmative, you knew you did a good. He sprung up in a flash of long limbs and 'NYEH-HEH-HEH's, and before you knew it you were being actually crushed by aforementioned long limbs. All four of them actually, as somehow the much taller skeleton had managed to koala onto you, leaving you as the sole support for a horrible conglomeration of skeleton and human. At least Papyrus was light like his brother, so really the only problem was all the suffocation occurring.

He removed himself from you before you could actually die though, something you weren't that sure you were grateful for; after all, you now had to go and invite Sans on this trip.

 

While you were dreading this, you wouldn't just leave without him, obviously. Especially after seeing that he seemed to have no material possessions. You appreciated minimalism, but you had a sinking feeling that his lack of ownership over any items was wrought from necessity, not any deeply-held beliefs.

So you were gonna see what he likes and spoil the shit out of him.

You didn't think you could just buy his forgiveness, that would be far too easy. It was a start though.

Inquiring about the whereabouts of his brother to Papyrus results in a unhappy 'huff' and a muttered 'lazybones'. Further prodding reveals that Sans has not yet left his room, which is perhaps the slightest bit concerning. Papyrus assures you that this is pretty usual for Sans, but he also doesn't know that anything happened last night, so you rush up to the room Sans chose for himself anyway.

He answers on the second knock, door swinging inward into darkness so thick you can barely see the outline of Sans' white face. It had the potential to be creepy, but his eye-lights were adorably wide; they shone out of his face like beacons in the darkness.

 

“Uh, hi?” He has to break the silence, as planning your words never happened in the rush to get over here.

“Hey! Hi.” You fumble, words feeling too thick in your mouth. “Uh, I was going into town to get breakfast and do some shopping today, and Papyrus is coming and I was wondering if you'd want to?”

You already know the answer of course, there was no way in hell he was about to let you spirit Papyrus away by yourself. He confirms this by looking at you suspiciously, then uttering a simple “Gimme a few.” The door swung back, closing off the impenetrable darkness of his room from you.

You had noticed he was wearing the clothes you had found him in, making you suspect he doesn't actually have any others. You mentally add 'clothes' to your growing list of things to acquire today.

 

By the time you get back to the living room, Papyrus is tapping his foot impatiently by the door. “HUMAN! WERE YOU ABLE TO EXTRACT MY BROTHER FROM THE DEPTHS OF HIS ROOM?”

“I think?” You answer, just the slightest bit bewildered by the response you had garnered from the small skeleton.

Papyrus seems about to say something when he looks to the stairs. You turn also and see that Sans is who to thank for your eardrums not rupturing for the second time that morning. Great.

Again, both brothers pile into the backseat, something you think you're going to have to get used to. Whatever, it wasn't like you wanted a copilot or anything.

Papyrus is really good at the whole mindless chatter thing, which is cool because silence can be deafening but you certainly didn't want to have to talk. “Accustomed” was probably the best word to describe your feelings on his voice at this point, but his ever-present cheerfulness was certainly contagious, and by the time town was in view you were smiling and laughing like you weren't a horrible person.

 

First things first: food. You made it a goal to forever put edible items before all else, so the first stop on your shopping trip was a coffee shop. One of your favorites, the atmosphere was always relaxed and the wifi was great. There was an old lady in the corner booth today, hooked nose buried in a newspaper that looked much older than today's; other than that the store was devoid of all life.

“I'll pay, since I was the one who dragged you guys out of the house. I really recommend the breakfast pizza, it's that good-good, but get whatever you want. Money is not an object.”

“YOUR GENEROSITY IS BOUNDLESS, HUMAN.” The old lady looked up, already wide eyes widening in fear. If her face was buried before, it was now six feet into the cold hard newspaper-ground. You ignored her, if you were a little old lady and a very loud skeleton appeared in the coffee shop you were reading your suspiciously old newspaper in, well, you'd probably be scared too.

 

Papyrus's voice also manages to draw out the cashier, a mousy girl with frizzy hair and bags under her eyes that were vaguely yellow in color. She gave you an uneasy smile, completely ignoring the brothers. You ordered (Breakfast pizza, of course), and waited as Sans and Papyrus picked through the menu.

She took their orders and didn't sneer or jeer, though she didn't do it with any sort of compassion or hospitality. You felt a bit gross that you deemed this 'good enough'.

It didn't seem to bother either Sans or Papyrus much, and you wondered if they were even aware that it wasn't the norm to be so cold to paying customers. Again, the ball of guilt rolled around in your stomach, picking up acid and bile and sloshing it throughout you.

 

Luckily, neither brother seemed to notice the unwelcome feelings that had overtaken you. Sans was busy spewing every food related pun that came to mind, while Papyrus whined and flailed. The old lady left, and you wondered whether she left due to your present company or because she had more pressing matters to attend to. Either way, it was weird seeing people who didn't live in the dingiest ghetto in the town being so.... abnormal around other 'people'.

You sneak a glance at Papyrus, watch as his jaw clicks open and shut. You supposed you could understand, in the way you could understand murderers and thieves and still not condone their actions. Seeing Papyrus's teeth click together, seeing the smooth bones grind just how they did underneath your skin, it was unsettling and intriguing in a melody of attraction and repulsion. It must be even worse for someone who'd been taught their whole life that monsters were a myth, only to be heard of in fairy tales to scare the kids into good behavior. Talking skeletons, in context, could be as unsettling as the actual dead returning.

 

The food arriving broke you out of your reverie. The smell wafted up to you, and you could approve of the brother's choices. Sans had a simple eggs and toast ensemble, Papyrus going a vastly different direction with an entire cake.

You were entirely sure he wouldn't finish it, until he did, leaving you confused as you stared down at your half-eaten plate. Maybe... You have no explanation for how he ate so much in so little time.

 

Magic.

 

Expanded jaw size due to being only a skeleton.

 

Sure.

 

Once you manage to finish, you look up and inquire, “How'd you guys like it?”

“It was _egg_ cellent.” Sans supplied with a shit-eating grin. You had the vaguely accusing thought that he got eggs just for that one pun.

Papyrus, somehow, chose to be the bigger person and not react so harshly to that pun, instead also giving you an affirmative about the food. Good, you were hoping they'd like this place.

 

The next stop was the clothing store, because clothing didn't need attention like animals and wouldn’t go bad like food (Not that any food would go bad in your snowy-ass town). By clothing store, you really meant the town plaza, where all the _good_ shops resided.

It wasn't hard to find a parking spot. As you got out you contemplated where exactly to get clothing for skeletons, as they were both male skeletons and you, as a matter of fact, were neither male nor a skeleton. This left you at a bit of a loss, but when in doubt, ask for assistance.

“So, where do you guys want to go to get clothes?” They were in the process of carefully picking their way out of the car, the snowy ground an obstacle to any kind of speed. At your question however, two faces – both confused – turned up to meet yours.

And you remembered you had never actually voiced your plan of getting them clothes.

 

Well then.

 

“Uh – uh... Okay so I noticed you guys don't really change clothes and I figured it was because you didn't have any and I kind of feel responsible for you guys now since you're living in my house and all that jazz so I took it upon myself to get you some outfits especially since,” You turn to Sans with an accusing look, “you're in shorts and _slippers?”_ you turned to Papyrus then, “And you're in... armor?”

Silence fell upon the three of you, and you took it upon yourself to break it by rambling on when you really shouldn't have. “Sorry if that's offensive I just want you guys to be comfortable and warm and maybe have clothes to wear whenever you wash your clothes which I'm hoping and assuming you do since you apparently take showers so it's obvious you guys know about cleanliness and-”

“THAT'S A VERY GENEROUS OFFER HUMAN!” Papyrus is your savior from yourself, his loud voice cutting you off before you could word vomit anymore. “HOWEVER, MY BATTLE BODY IS THE BEST CLOTHING IMAGINABLE, SANS HELPED ME MAKE IT AND I HAVEN'T TAKEN IT OFF SINCE.”

“I thought...” You hesitated, but really, embarrassing yourself was kind of a tradition at this point, and why stop now? “I thought you shower?”

“I DO, HUMAN.”

 

Well. This wasn't actually a conversation topic you were interested in pursuing, so when Sans started talking, you accepted it gratefully. “Y'know, getting different shoes is actually a _shoe_ per idea.” Papyrus's whine cause a lady walking by you guys to stumble; as she glared you sent her one right back. It was gratifying to see her eyes widen and have her stumble away. “We have our own money though, no need for the charity.”

No. nope. No way, you were going to get them some new, nice clothes and you were going to feel better about yourself.

You mull over what they had said, then turn to Papyrus. “What do you say we get some fabric, thrift store clothes, craft supplies, I can dig up my sewing machine and we can make you more clothes?”

“HUMAN! THAT IS...” His eyes were... crying? Sparkling? Ejecting sparkly tears? In any sense, it looked extremely emotional and mildly flamboyant. “THAT IS THE BEST IDEA ANYONE HAS EVER PRESENTED TO ME!”

 

Okay. That was... good. You turn to Sans, and it the most stern voice you can manage simply go, “I'm buying you clothes. I don't want to find you half-dead on my driveway again and I want to apologize.”

He blushes, most likely because he was reminded of his failure to actually make it to your house. A glance in Papyrus' direction confirms that he hadn't told his brother about his near death experience. Luckily, Papyrus was far to busy having convulsions about making clothing to have paid attention to anything you were saying. Sans glares at you after he's reassured Papyrus didn't hear anything, you gift him with a wink.

The closest store was catered to a slightly alternative audience, but you figured that was just fine since skeletons probably fell into the category of 'alternative'. The sales clerk was actually very friendly, a welcome change from all the uncomfortable encounters you had already had today. Sans ended up finding some fingerless gloves, which for some reason amused you to no end. He waggled his fingers at you, repeating 'phalanges' as you died on the floor of a public shopping area. Papyrus found you like that, and when he scolded his brother Sans wore an expression closer to triumph than remorseful.

Papyrus himself had found long sweatpants with pictures of spaghetti on them, which from what little you knew of his interests, suited him quite well. He NYEH-HEH-HEH'd all the way to checkout, where someone very kinda and enthusiastic with him brought up the total. You swooped in and paid the total, the asked her about the fingerless gloves Sans had put back. You paid for those too and swooped them up; disgruntlement was probably the best word for Sans's emotions as you shoved them at him. He took them anyways, as persuasiveness was honestly one of your more prominent virtues.

 

The next stop, as promised to Papyrus, was a thrift store. It was a bit stuffy and packed to the brim. The owner glided around stacks of clothing like a wraith, his bespectacled eyes locking on yours for a mere second before he was gone into piles of clothing.

Papyrus found no less that three crop tops, a very interesting choice but one you could condone. They were less than five dollars altogether, which made you silently praise the thrift shop gods. You had been looking for some nice boots for yourself when you stumbled upon them; too small for you but filled with fuzziness that rivaled your blankets. They were black faux-leather, waterproof, and while you couldn't figure out what absolutely wonderful material lined the insides, that didn't change the fact they were absolutely wonderfully fuzzy.

 

You thought Sans's feet would be smaller than yours, he was shorter by a good few inches. Still, you wandered over to were he was looking through the jackets and asked him his shoe size.

“My wha?” He lazily looked over as he asked.

“Your shoe size? You know, the number on the shoes that fit your feet.”

He works his jaw for a second, like he was contemplating how to word something or whether he should word it at all. “Down in the underground... the only way we got things like that was when they fell down after humans discarded them.” Your smile faltered, but he continued. “We had to make due with what we could get.”

Any excitement of presenting the boots to him was swept away with this odd revelation, and you hand them to him gently. “Do you like them? I thought you might because the fur might be something close to as comfy as your slippers and they'd actually be decent footwear for this kind of weather, the treads are deep and they're waterproof. If they fit I'll get them for you, but I have no idea what size feet you have.”

He kicked off the slippers, and you helped him unlace the boots. You weren't quite sure if the whole 'Wear socks before trying on shoes' idea really counted for skeletons, but there weren't any socks afoot so if it did apply, it was duly ignored.

 

“These are... really comfy.” He tries after a few seconds of being in apparent awe. “I'd have to say, I'm _sole_ d.” He continues much more steadily.

You snort just a little, before bending down and pushing around his toes.

“Wha-What?” He musters, apparently unawares of proper shoe-trying-on technique.

“I'm just checking to see if they fit you right, you want a little bit of room at the toes but not much.” You say apologetically. “So they feel fine? Good support, no pinching, all of that?”

“Yeah...” He said, head tilted downwards. “Yeah, they do.”

 

The slight figure of the owner came into view then, his wiry beard matching his wiry frame with the kind of ghostliness only the very old or very sick could obtain. “They're seven dollarss.” He seemed to hiss just the slightest bit on the 's'. You gave him the money quickly, happy you didn't have to remove the shoes from Sans's being to pay for them. You turn to him, and he's looking at you weird, all squinted eye-sockets and tilted mouth.

“What?” You question. He shakes his head and walks away. You stay in place, feeling rather dejected.

That is, until Papyrus come up with a small bowl for pet food and proudly declares, “FOR THE NEWEST ADDITION TO THE FAMILY!”

“That's a superb idea Papyrus, is there another one?” He rushes back and presents you with another bowl, bigger and more colorful. It's mismatched from the first one, but he's so excited that you can't bring yourself to care.

 

Some socks (for Sans), two action figures (for Papyrus [of course]), a Christmas tree ornament (Because it was shiny and you were a sucker), and a scarf decorated with cats (probably also Papyrus but it really just appeared in your hands so who knows.) accompanied your earlier purchases by the time you walked out the door. The old man had called out a farewell from right behind you as you were leaving, making you jump, but you returned it graciously after regaining your composure.

You lead them to a craft store next, which is a bit of a walk but nothing too drastic. Papyrus gasps breathlessly as you as you walk in, and then he's off, doing Papyrus things in another land. This leaves you and Sans to walk around the store, pointing out little things that catch your attention.

By the time you regroup, Papyrus has a acquired a shopping cart and a multitude of things to put in it. You and Sans, not exactly being the crafty types, simply accompanied him to the checkout. The cashier looks a bit shell-shocked at first, but then her face settles into lines dug there by laughter and stress.

 

You pay and leave.

 

With the extravagant amount of items, you all have to help carry, so you make the suggestion to return to the car. It's easy enough, especially with Sans in his new boots.

“Okay guys,” You start after everything is nicely packed away. “Pet store now?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Second chapter here, more should come soon as I have much more free time now. Reviews would be outstandingly appreciated, especially revolving around the controversial sex-for-rent deal. Reviews really encourage me to write more than anything else, so it'd be beneficial to both of us if you'd drop one;) I'd love for people to point out errors, plot holes, junky writing, anything really. This is a learning experience


	3. Contradictions

The pet store, which you had so named for the purpose of ease, was actually the pound. While you had never actually had a pet before, you understood that getting one from the pound was much like saving a life. It just seemed silly to go to an actual pet store instead, especially when the animal was actually for Papyrus, who would probably accept any possible animal as family in a second.

So the three of you make the trek, with only a few minor mishaps. One such mishap involved snow covering where sidewalk should've been, but wasn't. Horribly unawares, Sans had stepped on the lying snow and as a consequence, had gone careening into a more horizontal than vertical position.

Thankfully, years of training for a war had honed your reflexes to the point that when he slipped, you were there in a second, steadying his small frame easily. The irony of the same skills that were supposed to eradicate his kind saving him from a rough tumble wasn't lost on you, though it might've been lost on him as you didn't get so much as a 'thank you'. What you did get was a suspicious look and a rough detachment from his being.

 

You tried to not feel too burnt as Papyrus's easy chatter filled up the walk, but humans are flawed and you couldn't quite forget.

 

That is, until you entered the magical world of adorable creatures and any worries whatsoever were banished by their fuzzy faces. The front of the pound had a reception desk right in the middle, with two hallways leading off to the sides where aforementioned fuzzy faces poked through bars to get a look at you guys.

The receptionist – a middle-aged lady who was obviously trying very hard to not let that fact show – looked up and grimaced.

“Sorry dearie,” She addressed you. (At least you assumed, you couldn't really connect the word 'dearie' to either of the skeletons.) “As inhumane as monsters are, there are laws in place stating that we cannot accept them.”

 

It took a good second for it to sink in that she was insinuating that you were here to abandon the skeleton brothers. This, once it sunk in, was a wildly hard thing to reply to; anger surged of course, but with it came questions revolving around the relationship you would really be having with the brothers. They weren't yours to give away, but you felt extraordinarily compelled to protect them.

To protect what was yours.

 

But they weren't yours, and you hadn't been so gridlocked within isolated you had tripped over into creepy-possessive.

 

It was a strange conundrum, one that was easily pushed aside as you let your anger dominate. “Actually, we're here for adoption.” You snapped.

“Oh.” She stated in a way you could tell she couldn't care less. “Well, have a look around. Don't remove any animals from their cages.”

You nodded, but you tried to do it as angrily as possible. Sadly, the apathy of the woman was apparent and it was a very odd and generally unproductive experience to fight apathy with anger.

 

It all ceased to matter as an excited squeal reached your ears. Papyrus had practically flown down the hallway to your right, the one full of cats. He was excitedly flailing somewhat in the direction of a particular cage, and for once words seemed to fail him; the squeaking he was making resembled no language you'd ever heard.

You stroll over to him, casually wondering how whatever resided in the cage was dealing with a skeleton having an aneurysm right by it. When you got there, you could see that they were actually handling it quite well, all things considered.

You say they, because within the cage Papyrus was still wildly gesturing to, even though you were _right there,_ two small kittens resided. One was white and one was black, and they were both staring up with round, curious eyes.

“Are you sure these are the ones you want?” You question Papyrus, worried about the fact he hadn't even seemed to consider any of the other cats, or the dogs for that matter. Not that you'd really thought he'd get a dog after the cat video incident, but it was worth a look, right?

“NYEH-HYEH-HYES!” He hysterically affirms, and you shrug. Really, there was no use in arguing at this point. You turn to inform the racist lady about your decision, coming up short when an equally short skeleton you had almost forgotten about blocks your path.

 

“Imma go for a walk.” Is all he offers. You scrutinize him, because you didn't really approve in this town of horrible people. Still, he had made it this far without your help, and he was an adult... as far as you could tell. It wasn't like you could stop him.

He's already right at the door anyways, so you call after him, “The pet store around the corner? We're going there next.” He nods an affirmative and is gone, leaving you with lots of animals and a tall skeleton still in hysterics.

 

The rude lady is efficient, if nothing else. She dutifully hands you all the paperwork, which you take your sweet time in filling out, well aware how the louder parts of Papyrus's fit make her wince.

Maybe that was unfair, because his regular voice made you wince when you first met.

Oh well. You pay the fee, and she follows you to the waiting kittens, who thankfully don't look scared of the much bigger skeleton. They're picked up, put in a cardboard box (with holes, of course) and dropped into your waiting hands.

“Thank you.” It's more of an impulse than a real expression of gratitude, but she replies with a tired smile and a soft 'you're welcome'.

Thankfully, Papyrus is mobile enough to be ushered out the door, he even waves to the lady as you leave. To your surprise, she waves back.

 

“Papyrus, we gotta get some stuff like pet food and whatever else kittens need.” You venture, cursing yourself the smallest bit for not being more knowledgeable on pet care. “The pet store is just around the corner?” It comes out like a question, because he is still twitching oddly and 'NYEH-HEH-HEH-ing' at random intervals.

He nods though, and then starts _sprinting_ in the direction you'd vaguely gestured.

 

Okay.

 

Luckily, when you venture into the pet store he's already there, explaining in mushed together words that he needs 'SUPPLIES FOR THE MOST WONDERFUL KITTENS IN THE WORLD' to a very scared looking cashier.

You walk up and gently nudge him aside, taking over the whole talking part. Your explanation, at least in your humble opinion, was a lot more coherent. Not that that was saying much.

Once the cashier understood, you let Papyrus do all the picking out of actual items (with the slightly more comfortable cashier as guidance).

 

This left you alone with your thoughts.

As a general rule, that was never a good thing.

 

This time, you thoughts swirled and slipped around a particular skeleton who had just up and left. Starting with exactly why he would do that (Didn't like animals? Didn't like rude middle aged ladies? Allergies to animals? [Skeleton allergies? Letting his brother get a pet? You actively acknowledged that one was stupid.] Didn't like all the noise? Didn't like the smell?

Didn't like _you?_

Not that you cared, just... _living_ with someone who doesn't like you?)

Then, your thoughts dipped into more concerning places. Such as the fact he'd been gone a decent while, and as far as you could tell the majority of this town was anti-monster. And he only had one HP. And he was so _small_.

It was... anxiety provoking.

And it didn't get better.

 

You tried to reason with yourself. He was an adult – probably. You made a mental note to ask his age later – He had audaciously strong magic, to even compete with yours. He could take care of himself just fine.

But he wasn't here, the first time you met his brother someone had tried to kill him, and you'd known him for about two days and he had already almost died _another time_ , and it was just too much. He could be mad at you all he wanted, he could bitch and moan about being treated like a child, but you were going to make sure he was safe.

The cashier was looking a lot more enthusiastic and comfortable, so you deemed leaving Papyrus here for the time being was acceptable (Also, you swore you'd never tell Sans, but you thought his brother was much more intimidating at face value). You asked him to please stay here and keep the kittens company while you went for a walk, and he agreed enthusiastically. The gaze you leveled at the cashier might not have gotten the full point across, but you could tell they understood it was a threat. A nod and smile was received on your end, which was deemed _good enough_ as the anxiety in your stomach just would not stop.

 

You went to the pound first, carefully searching the area around it. This led to nothing, so you expanded your search, carefully looking into every alley you passed.

You expected it to take forever to find him; maybe you'd see him gazing longingly up at the ever-snowing sky and you could beat a hasty retreat. Maybe he would see you and get angry, or maybe you wouldn't find him at all, and when you went back to the pet shop he would be there and you would feel very very silly. Hell, maybe he would even find you and scare you.

All those things seemed plausible, probable even.

 

But none of them were what happened.

* * *

 

Sans was feeling... feelings. Uncomfortable, unexpected, unreasonable feelings. A weird mix of all kinds of things, and it was mostly unwelcome but it almost wasn't. Because for the last forever he had really only felt the endless hopelessness of depression and the hysterical bubbling of insanity, mixed liberally with the exhaustion from insomnia and nightmares in a two-for-one special. This was not those feelings, these were odd ones. Ones he had to dredge up old memories to really understand.

And he knew that delving into his past wasn't exactly welcomed in polite company, especially polite company he had known for about two days and was actually the source of most of his problems.

 

So he took a walk.

 

He liked walks, yet he was such a lazy sack of bones. Contradictions seemed to be the theme of today.

This theme manifested in his feelings, the ones warring for dominance in both his soul and skull. He felt... He felt grateful, but also resentful. It was an oxymoron, or something of that form, something that turned himself against himself and it wasn't good because he was already his own worst enemy and this inner turmoil wasn't helping worth shit. Because you were actually taking care of them. He hadn't had someone take care of him in a long, long, long time (He didn't know if being carried home after one of his drinking sprees by any number of monsters counted, so he didn't think about it) he was the caretaker, the decision-maker, the adult even when it felt like a title too big and proud to place upon his crumpled existence. But necessity drove his life, and he was all of those things because they were what he needed to be, and what he had been for years.

 _For Papyrus._ It was easier, when he remembered who he had taken up all those mantles for.

 

But you... in only two short days, he'd felt more safe and protected and _cared for_ than he had in years – he didn't think about what that said about his life, since he had been fully prepared to let you steal one of the few whole pieces of his existence _and it had still been better then_ – and it finally felt like maybe possibly all of the responsibilities he had piled up on his shoulders for so long could slide off and he could stop with this self-destructive cycle of sacrificing everything. Maybe he'd actually get a break, a rest, a time when he felt like his bones _wouldn't_ crack from stress. Maybe he could stop being constantly on-guard, because you were more than capable and extremely willing to protect the both of them. And it was nice, it was nice knowing that he and his miserable 1 HP weren't the only thing standing between his absolute pacifist of a brother and death. It was nice to not worry about where the money was going to come from, or what they were going to do if it didn't. It was nice to let himself relax against the veritable barrage of aggression from the human race, because now you were there to fight the battles.

 

 _It was nice_.

 

But at the same time it wasn't.

 

It wasn't nice because he felt displaced, because if he didn't have to be all those things anymore, what was he? It wasn't nice because he wasn't sure if he could trust you, he didn't know if you'd drop them in the end. He was unsure because you had never explicitly stated that you were going to help them, and what if you didn't, in a crucial moment? He didn't know, he wasn't sure, leaving him lost in a sea of mixed emotions. And what if you were just like everyone else, so rotten to the core yet with an air of politeness covering it; the only thing distinguishing you is that your politeness extended to monsters.

 

_What if you hurt Papyrus?_

 

It was unwelcome, a stray thought that landed somewhere around his sternum and stayed lodged there, all sharp and poky and _endless_.

Because if he trusted you and you hurt Papyrus, he was entirely sure he would rampage until the endlessly callous world put him down. And then where would the rest of the monsters be?

It simply couldn't happen. So he simply couldn't trust you. It was easy like that.

 

Except for that it wasn't.

 

These thoughts were promptly cut off as an arm was wrapped around his waist. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that it didn't occur to him that he should be struggling until the brick walls bordering an alley swept past his field of view. It all hit at once, and he raised his left hand, already poised to tear the hole that would release his blasters, when a hand gathered up both his wrists and jabbed grimy fingers through the gap between his arms bones.

For lack of a more correct word, Sans _shrieked_.

It wasn't actually an injury, it wouldn't actually kill him, but whoever had gone to the trouble of dragging him down an alleyway was obviously intending to hurt him, and _intent was everything_.

 

He was slammed into the hard wall, his face inches from his attacker's. They had red-rimmed sparkly blue eyes and the convoluted thought of 'very pretty' floated in his mind. That is, until they started talking and the smell of alcohol curled around him, simultaneously making him realize he really needed a drink and he really needed to throw up.

He did neither as a raspy voice threatened him, “Try to attack me and I'll say you tried to murder me unprovoked, I'll get you and that monstrosity of a brother you have thrown down underground again where you can't ever _soil_ this beautiful earth with your **Satan**. Same if you scream, so just keep that freaky mouth shut and I promise I won't kill you.” Despite the heavy alcoholic scent, his words were crisp and clear, all business. It was worse.

And quick-thinking was not a skill Sans possessed, because why would he ever when he had thousands of resets to get it right? So the mans hands twisted in between his bones, and he _whimpered_ and cursed himself because while thinking about trusting you and about letting his guard down _he had let his guard down_ and he had fucked up.

And he didn't even know, had no idea what would happen to him or if Papyrus would be okay, and there was only one hand in his arm bones now but it sure was doing enough and his magic couldn't work like this and he wasn't suited to above ground because TURN BASED COMBAT WAS WHAT HE WAS MADE FOR **DAMMIT**

And then the other arm was under his shirt and he didn't know and didn't want to think about it because skeletons weren't sexy and there was no was this guy was actually _raping_ him but wow he was feeling violated and it only got worse when a meaty hand wrapped around his rib and _squeezed._

It drew a whimper out of him and he cursed himself all the more because he didn't want to make that sound and he didn't know what to _do._

 

And then, he didn't have to do anything.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! As I'm sure you noticed, this chapter is unreasonably small compared to my others, but I have a reason! The reason is the second half is going to be posted two days from now, so Monday for me, This is happening because cliffhanger.
> 
> Yeah, I'm horrible.
> 
> Comments will be loved tenderly and replied to always. Please leave some thoughts on my work, its what I thrive on.
> 
> ALSOALSOALSO AND PROBABLY MOST IMPORTANTLY: THIS FANWORK GOT A FANART ON THE FIRST CHAPTER AND I FRICKLE-FRACKING FORGOT LINKING TO IT WAS A THING I COULD DO SO HERE IT IS: [uhhh I'm not very good at this but i try, their blog is yvshan, very good undertail sans stuff there](https://67.media.tumblr.com/ba1047753950f52524e835f94937d988/tumblr_o7y0kl7F4B1v7bcp8o1_1280.png)


	4. Have you ever...?

Magic is horrendously powerful and colossally unfair, yet it had never achieved infallibility. Magic gave advantages that rendered anything else useless, worthless, undeserving of the time spent. It was lusted after, sought through trials and tribulations. It provoked jealousy and love and greed, and all the other dark things in human nature, because it was overpowered and endlessly helpful to its owner.

But magic was its own curse, in a way.

Magic was overwhelming, awe-inspiring and extravagant beyond belief.

 

It was also nigh-uncontrollable.

 

Magic was staggeringly powerful, and inexorably connected to the soul. The soul, where all the deepest and most primal emotions spring from. The soul, where logic and reason are pushed to the side in favor of the most visceral of things, things like hate and love, the overwhelming urge to protect and the overwhelming urge to kill.

Magic controlled its user more than its user controlled magic.

And there were legends and stories and folklore about how magic was created, what purpose it served, and it all came back to one answer: to protect. Magic was here to defend what you deemed yours, to keep those worthy of being cared for safe. The basest urge of magic was to protect, and therefore anything claimed by its wielder would be protected at all costs.

And it just so happened that somewhere along the way your magic had gone ahead and decided Sans was yours.

 

The power was so intoxicating, so intense; there was no chance to really think about your actions. It as a veritable tidal wave of raw electricity, electrifying veins and tendons until all that was left was to _act._

Because you _needed_ to protect what was _yours_ , you needed to protect _Sans_ because even if you hadn't claimed him, your magic had, and now it recognized that he was being hurt when he was _yours._ And no logic, no reason could come to you for the split second you stopped at the mouth of an alley of a deserted street (Why oh why had that idiot chosen the most abandoned street in existence?).

 

And then you were flying down it, speed that normal humans could never hope to achieve, rage that you could never hope to quell.

And then you were on him.

 

Humans are really too fragile.

 

* * *

 

Sans wasn't aware of anything but a brush on his consciousness, something that whispered _power._ But he had much more pressing issues to deal with, so it was shoved to the back of his mind as it slowly chugged through what exactly he could do to get out of this situation.

 

And then he was out of that situation.

 

With no one holding him up, he slipped down the rough wall, ignoring the way it scraped his spine. Ignoring everything actually, everything but you in front of him, crouched over his attacker. Your mouth was drawn back in a snarl, and he could almost imagine drool and blood dripping from it. It was easy when you looked about two seconds away from tearing his esophagus out with teeth alone. Magic sparked visibly around you, illuminating both your face and his attackers face in eerie and unsettling ways, glinting too-bright off of bared teeth. Your hands were wrapped around his neck, sharp but stout nails digging into his throat enough to draw blood, and you were growling at him in words too low and garbled for Sans to have any hope of understanding.

Blue eyes (Prettier, now. Wide and shiny) darted around your face, rattling gasps jerked his body in ungainly convulsions. His mouth flapped uselessly, maybe trying to form words but failing either way. His shiny face was turning all sorts of unsightly colors and his finger wouldn't stop twitching, and it was right around this time Sans realized you were killing him. This revelation struck him as odd and uncomfortable, because he'd like to think that you were nice and kind and caring, but your hands were wrapped so tightly around the mans throat and his pretty blue eyes were popping right out of his shiny head. He'd killed things before, people just like the man under you, with eyes just as pretty, but he never counted himself as a good person.

 

And then he stopped moving and _you just kept squeezing._

 

And he didn't realized anything was wrong, not even with all the magic crackling around you, until the man's hand was no longer there. And then his arm wasn't, and then neither was his legs or his shoulder and suddenly it was like he was never there at all; pretty blue eyes gone like so much vapor.

And then you turned and met his gaze;

 

and

his

heart

_stopped_

 

Your eyes were so so _so_ intense, flickering like there was magic _inside_ them too. And maybe there was, because your eyes were so pretty, prettier than the _blueblueblue_ of the man's eyes, prettier than any of the eyes of the things he killed. And they were trained right on him and he didn't know what to do with that because they were too profoundly focused on him and he was sure that if you ever really took the time to actually _look_ at him he would come up wanting in your pretty, _pretty_ eyes.

Then you were right by him, and he had the presence of mind to be scared – You had just _disintegrated_ someone, after all – but he found he couldn't move. And you were looming over him, just like you had loomed over _him_. And he wondered if maybe you would just kill him like you had the blue-eyed man, and he found he might just possibly be more than okay with it if he could stare at your pretty eyes the whole way down.

And you said one word, and it was soft and sweet and nothing like the growls you'd leveled at pretty-eyes. “Mine.” He found he didn't think you were going to kill him, after all.

 

It took a minute of Sans staring at you to really comprehend, but you didn't say anything else, didn't move from where you were – not quite touching him, yet surrounding him anyways – and he realized it was a question.

Not spoken like one, no infliction at all, but the question was in your eyes, in the way your magic swirled around the both of you but never actually touched him.

 

It was easy, at that point. He was so, so tired, and worrying about this exact thing was what had had gotten him into this predicament, and here was his answer. He was familiar with the nature of magic, he knew that both his and Papyrus's safety would be guaranteed as long as they were still claimed as 'yours'.

And while he was suddenly so lost as to your morals (Killed a man killed a man killedaman _killed_ him) it was better than anything else, and if he was being completely honest he liked you more for it, because he knew what it was to kill for a purpose.

 

What it was to kill to protect.

 

So he nodded once at you, holding your gaze as best he could, letting the intensity of your eyes examine him. And as soon as you understood it was an affirmative; as soon as you understood he was _yours_ , you crumpled.

Your head was heavy on his shoulder, soft hair brushing up against him in a way he couldn't deny he liked. And your magic was brushing against him too, not invasive, just light caresses that he vaguely thought might be you checking to see if he was okay. It was warm and calming, and you were too, curled around him like you could just stay like that and keep the world away.

And you did, for a while. He'd never felt safer than with you curled around him, and if he could've stopped his life, kept one moment frozen in space forever, it would've been then. The thrum of magic within him had slowed to its regular pace by the time you lifted yourself.

He found he would've much rather you stayed.

 

But Papyrus was somewhere, and he needed to be where Papyrus was, so he let you guide him back to the pet store. And if you stumbled on the way there, well, he didn't say anything. And if you urged them to go back to your house right afterward, well, it wasn't really his business.

Plus, there were cats. They clambered all over him and Papyrus in the backseat as you drove, and it was really hard to be anxious about anything with such adorable fuzzballs. Papyrus had done good with the cats; the cats had done good too. It was nice to have such adorable animals treat them like any other people, refreshing in a way it shouldn't have had to be.

You didn't say a word when everyone got out of the car, though whatever compulsion you had to always open their door was still going strong. He did notice you looked about as close to dead as he'd ever seen you, all the color had drained from your face, matching it (unintentionally, he assumed, but women and their fashion was a strange, strange thing) to the snow that lay thick around your house.

 

As soon as you were inside, it was like you were on a mission to your room. He didn't stop you.

 

You didn't come out for three days.

 

He left food outside your door, a convoluted version of breakfast-lunch-dinner that was swayed by when he was awake, when Papyrus was awake, and what little he knew how to cook.

Sometimes the food was gone, sometimes it wasn't. Papyrus named the kittens: Vivaldi, for the gray one, and Lucida for the white one. While Sans could approve carrying on traditions, memories of exactly where those traditions started made him wince just a bit more than he would've liked.

But the kittens were absolutely adorable, and it was easy to let their fluffy antics whisk away memories of a worse time.

 

* * *

 

You were probably asleep before you ever hit the bed, but it was all blurred together in a mishmash of _after_.

You dreamed of a blissful nothing.

When you woke, you didn't deal with the fact you had killed someone. You watched the snow until you felt like you could sleep again.

And you slept again.

 

You woke up to a knock. You weren't prepared, not ready to talk to them, but they deserved your guidance – they _just_ moved in, surely they needed help with something – yet, when you answered the door there was nothing but a plate of food.

You ate it.

It tasted like textured nothing, which was much better than many things it could taste like. You accepted this as the best of all possible tastes and returned to bed.

It happened like that, the food continuously appearing; eventually it started tasting like caloric goodness once again. Eventually you convinced yourself it was for the greater good. Eventually you accepted that this was an evil you would almost certainly be required to take on to protect those you had deemed yours.

 

_Yours._

 

You didn't realize you couldn't control your breathing until you were without air for long enough to stutter your heartbeat into your throat. The short gasps making their painful way out your lips just weren't doing it. Your legs shook like they'd give out as you stumbled to the window, which was slammed open with far more force than was strictly necessary. The cold air burned your throat, but it was calming in a horrible way. The ground was softer than it really should've been when you collapsed onto it, gasping like you'd been rudely hooked out of water and couldn't breathe. It was cold, and you focused on that, and eventually found your legs.

You left the window open when you went back to bed.

It was freezing when you woke up.

 

You felt like things much heavier than your blankets were pressing on you. And you didn't know why it was easier to deal with killing someone, murdering them with bare hands and then disintegrating the body than to deal with the fact you had claimed protector-ship of two FUCKING SKELETONS of all the things in the world you could decide to define as yours. And kittens, also. But the kittens were fuzzy and sweet and not targeted by what seems like the entire town.

You'd never had to take care of anyone but yourself, much less a species so targeted by racists you'd already had to fight for their safety twice.

But they were adults, you reminded yourself. It wasn't like caring for a child. You'd also already done good with the whole protecting thing, at least something near it. While you hadn't been exactly _on time_ for the last incident, you'd still ended it, still kept him mostly safe.

You could deal with this. You were going to either way anyways; even now you could feel your magic thrumming with the urge to protect.

 

Yeah.

You could do this.

 

You went back to sleep.

* * *

 

It was three days before you left your room, but you did eventually; you'd gotten a lot of thinking done and maybe possibly that was just what you needed.

And maybe you also needed the warm greeting Papyrus gave you, and maybe you also needed the thankful looks Sans kept shooting your way. And it was easy to pop in a movie and sit for a while; laugh and joke like you'd known these brothers forever. The popcorn Papyrus made was deliciously buttery, almost melting in your mouth in a barrage of artery-clogging goodness.

It was late when Papyrus retired, and Sans followed him up to his room. You smiled a bit at that, because it was almost awe-inspiring how close the brothers were. To your surprise Sans came back down, and he even stayed as you popped in another disc, a cheesy horror film to wind down the night. He cracked jokes right along with it, and you were snorting and snuffling more than you had in years. It was nice.

 

And right as you were both getting ready to go to bed, he turned to you with eyes so serious your entire body stopped for the smallest of seconds; a moment frozen in time because the look in his eyes was like nothing you'd ever seen him wear.

“Thank you. I appreciate you taking care of me and Papyrus.” And his mouth moved in just this certain _way_ and you found no more qualms with taking on the responsibility of these brothers.

“Y-yeah.” you stuttered at him, but it was more at his back as he walked away. With no way to tell if he heard you, you went to your room.

You dreamed of pretty words and clacking jaw bones and found they went together quite well; that is, until they started chasing you. The words were so, so pretty though, so eventually you stopped and let the jaws _clack-clack-clack_ right over you.

 

* * *

 

As much as you didn't want to, you really did need to get food. So two days from the kitten-gettin' incident (As some convoluted and annoying part of your brain had taken to calling it) you announced that the plans of the day included grocery shopping.

Papyrus, who was the kitten's obvious favorite (and currently had one in his ribcage and the other crawling up his arm) asked with skepticism practically dripping from his teeth, “Can the kittens come?”

“Not inside the store, sorry. It's like a health code violation or something.” He looked pretty miffed about that.

“I REFUSE TO ABANDON SUCH FUZZY BABIES.” You didn't really feel like talking to him about how it wasn't abandonment and you'd all be back and heck, the kittens could even wait in the car while you guys shopped (you didn't feel safe enough about leaving Papyrus in the car). It was pretty obvious Papyrus wanted to stay with the kittens, so you let him do his thing.

 

You figured this meant you'd be making this trek alone, which was just fine in your opinion. Shopping alone was more efficient, if nothing else. You were puttering around, getting your keys and all the other 'leaving the house' things. A paper is scrawled on, your cell phone number something near legible in jerky writing.

When you turn around, the top of a skull enters your gaze and you actually jump on the counter. “Sans! Make some noise or something, oh god.”

 

He rubs the back of his neck, looking something near sheepish. His cheeks are the barest tint of blue, kind of like the first time you ever talked to him... about... stuff.

Okay, bad train of thought.

 

“Sorry, was just comin' in to tell you I wanted to come shopping.”

Your thoughts stuttered for a second before resuming normal processing, because Papyrus was here and therefore Sans would be here right? But apparently not, cause now he was looking all kinds of embarrassed and shy.

“I mean, if that's okay with you, I dun-”

“That's perfectly fine! You can tell me about what you and Papyrus like and I won't need to make a list.” He stopped looking ever so shy, and a serious look took it's place instead.

“Papyrus will be good here, right?”

“I've never had trouble before, but I was writing down my cellphone number before you rudely appeared and scared the shit outta me so he can call if there's any problem.” Sans looked the smallest bit displeased, so you continued. “Does he know how to use a phone? I can also make a barrier around the house but it would take bullshit amounts of magic and I'd much rather not. We might have issues ourselves and I'd much rather be well-equipped.”

“Yeah, he knows how to use a _phone._ ” Ouch, hostility.

“I didn't know if you guys had phones underground! You certainly didn't know about _payphones._ ” The blue comes back to his cheeks, and it banishes away the aggressiveness that had pervaded his aura.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Valid point.” He sighs, looks a bit to the side. “Paps will be fine. Just give him your number. He's stronger than he looks.”

 

In your personal opinion, a towering skeleton was quite strong looking. And also horrifying.

You gave him your number and told him to call if anything went wrong, and then you and Sans were on your way. You could only hope there would be no attacks upon either one of you this time.

 

Your track record was disheartening, to say the least.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hihihihihi everyone!! I really appreciate all the reviews and kudos everyone has left on this work, please comment if you have any suggestions/questions/whatever I answer every review! Thank you all for reading and i hope you guys are enjoying where this story is going.
> 
> Also I used 'and' way too much at the beginning of sentences whoops that happened


	5. Culture Differences Are Serious Shizznits

When Sans clambered into the backseat like it was for all the world where he was supposed to be, you had to stop the madness.

 

“Okay, I can understand you guys both sitting back there cause safety in numbers and your whole co-dependency shit, but it's just you and me? So there's no reason for you to sit in the back?”

“Wha-what?” He sounds honestly confused, which is... something?

“The passenger seat? You can sit in it. It's traditional that when there's two adults in a car one is driving – obviously – and one is in the passenger seat? Copiloting. It's called shotgun and some people actually fight over the honor.”

“You mean the seat by you?” You would think he was being purposefully obtuse if he hadn't sounded so freaking confused. You had to remind yourself that yes, this skeleton had very literally lived under a rock for the vast majority of his life, and yes, he was going to be ignorant of some things. They probably didn't even have cars underground, you couldn't imagine how bad the pollution would get in no time at all. Plus, with the entirety of their civilization being confined under a mountain, you couldn't imagine they had the space for roads or parking lots.

Still, if you hadn't felt like there was a horrendously big chance it would hurt his feelings, you would've facepalmed. “Yes, that one.”

“Oh, well... okay.” He unbuckles himself (safety is important!) and travels the short distance to the passenger seat, looking uncomfortable the whole way. You frowned at this, it wasn't a good look on him. Shifting eyelights, a hard diagonal of teeth... it made him look even smaller than he actually was. Timid.

“Hey, look, if you're more comfortable back there it's not really my place to make you change.” You could understand clutching tightly to any form of comfort in hard times, and it seemed Sans's hard times were all the time.

“No, no it's fine...” He trails off like he means to say more; when he doesn't you start the car and begin the careful maneuvering of it down your driveway. He only continues after a few minutes of his eye-lights, huge with some emotion or another, staring off into the snowy forest you were passing. “When we – monsters – were first getting everything settled with your government, we got carted around a lot by people. I-we... we were always in the backseats, so I just thought that was how it was.”

You took care to keep your driving careful as he told you, but anger and confusion were both rising inside of you like some duet of distraction. “Was there ever anyone in the front seat?”

“A few times.” He said it not unlike a resignation, but the next part sounded a bit more than miffed. “When it was too crowded otherwise.”

Your mind flew through all the reason that could possibly be, as having someone deemed an 'enemy' behind you wasn't very advantageous... not that cars were very advantageous to start with. But the back was a tactically sound place to put untrustworthy people if there was... “Hey Sans, was there anything separating the front and backseat?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, there was actually. Glass, I think. You're car is weird, it's more like the ones in the movies we had underground.”

 

Oh. Well.

 

You could think of this logically. Monsters, at the time of negotiation, had just escaped imprisonment by the human race. Resentment, maybe even violence, would be an expected reaction. It would be only smart to put them in cars where they couldn't turn on the driver. Really, it made sense.

But the fact he thought he was _supposed_ to sit in the backseat. It's just another thing to make your heart clench for him.

“My car is actually the normal type, and you can sit in the front seat whenever you want.”

“Why were the other ones different?”

“They were government cars.” You didn't really know how to go about explaining this particular topic to him; it doesn't seem to matter because when you looked over his face is screwed up in resigned understanding. You don't like it.

 

“Hey,” You attempt to keep your voice cheerful, eager to change the now dreary mood. “Have you ever driven a car?” It's completely unexpected, that coming out of your mouth.

“Huh? Oh, well... No, I haven't.” His face looks a lot better now, much smoother. Good, now you just have to keep it that way.

“Would you like to?” You smirk at him. Driving was something you loved with all your heart, the rumble under you, the scenery flying by... It was exhilarating. Enthralling. And if he thought the same, it would most likely put a pleasing expression on his face.

“I-Uh – is that okay?” He stutters out, but his eye-lights are actually _twinkling_. Yeah, you already like this look much better.

“Of course it's okay, why would I offer otherwise?” This time, instead of heading towards town at the end of your driveway, you turn the other direction. It's not a major road, but it's still been cleared of snow and there's a huge parking lot down it that's only used when there's a show in the auditorium.

 

Maybe one day your lack of restraint will really bite you in the ass, but as of right now it was completely worth it to decide on impromptu driving lessons instead of heading straight into town, if only to see Sans's face when he couldn't see over the dashboard.

You muffle the giggles, but you can't actually stop them. Sans looks at you, miffed as all get-out, and you leave your place as passenger seat driving instructor to swoop in to his rescue. The seat is manipulated, buttons and levers pushing it as up and forward as it will go.

Still, he's struggling. A brilliant idea enters your brilliant mind, and even though you're almost sure Sans won't approve, you pop the trunk and withdraw the pillow you keep for sleeping purposes.

 

I mean, hey, there's no telling when you'll need a nap.

 

Sans's face is furiously blue when you ask him to please get out for just one second, and it doesn't calm down one bit when the pillow proves to be enough for the small skeleton to drive safely. You resist the urge to tell him it's the cutest thing you'd ever seen; you were coherent enough to understand that would probably not help with the whole 'driving' deal. You had a suspicion it would help make his face even bluer than it currently was though, so it was a near thing. You compromised by promising yourself you'd turn his face as blue as possible eventually.

So to distract yourself from the periwinkle dusting on his cheeks, you focus on instructing him. “Okay, so it's snowy which is probably not the _ideal_ environment for you to learn. It's going to be slippery, even with it being cleared here, so don't go too crazy.” He nods, picking up this information with bright eyes and slightly flushed cheeks. “That being said, we're both adults – wait, actually. I've been meaning to ask this for a while, how old are you?” You braced yourself for the answer, because if somehow this skeleton was a minor then the only way you could think of to redeem yourself would be seppuku.

“Uh,” There's an uncomfortable pause as he contemplates, moving his jaw like he was rolling the words around in his mouth. “I don't actually know. Things are... different. Underground.”

You refrain from shouting in surprise, but it's a near thing. You suppose you should be grateful your control is good enough for even that. Still, you have to make sure you aren't teaching a twelve year old how to drive... among the other things that would become much more questionable if he was young. “Do you know if you're an adult? Like, over eighteen. Preferably over twenty-one, actually, cause I'd like a drinking buddy sometimes.”

He stiffens at 'drinking buddy', and you file that away as maybe not a good thing to bring up again. Still, he answers you with surety in his tone. “Yeah, 'm definitely older than that.”

“Okay, good.” You pass him the keys and smile fondly as he looks at them as though they're an alien artifact. “You ever noticed how to turn the car on?”

You might've sounded just a bit condescending with that, because his eyes are filled with determination when he turns back to the problem at hand. He only fumbles a little before the car roars to life around you, ending with a satisfying rumble. Your heart swells when he looks at you with excitement glittering in his eye sockets; making up the start of your relationship to him was actually proving to be easy. And fun. And rewarding.

“Great. Good.” You've never really taught anyone much of anything, and you can't help but wonder if there was a better way to do this. “Okay, so there's two pedals down by your feet. The wide one on your left is the brake, it makes the car stop.” He turned a 'well-duh' look at you, and you took maybe a second longer than you should've pondering the logistics of a skeleton having expressions. You paid for it when the elegant arch of his eyebrow turned into a worried furrow, but the wrinkle just between where his eyebrows would've been captivated you further. “Ah... Em.” You finally managed, ever so eloquently. “The pedal to the right of it is the gas.” You refrained valiantly from saying it 'make car go'. ”This stick whatever here.” You said as you gestured to the gear stick, “Is for making the car go forwards and backwards and also not at all. You have to have your foot on the brake to change it. P is park, R is reverse, D is drive. The others aren't important at this exact moment, I'll teach you all of them if you ever decide to get your license and become a regular driver.”

 

He turns a skeptical face on you. “I could get my license?”

“Uhh...” You respond, wonder how his eye sockets can widen and close like they weren't, you know, _bone._ But he asked you a question, so you rallied admirably to respond. “In this country you were all made into official citizens, right?” He nods, so you continue on. “Well, as far as I know any citizen over the age of sixteen with no major incidents on their record can get their license.”

“Huh.” His expressions are so similar to the ones humans use, and you wonder if monsters simply use their faces in the same way or if he picked that up after coming aboveground. Right now he looks thoughtful, maybe a tad wistful in the way his eyebrow bones drooped. “You got a _bone_ to pick with me?” The words break you out of your reverie. Sans is looking sassy as all get out as he examines your rapidly reddening face; it's maddening that even right after getting caught red-handed staring at his face that you want to continue staring at his face. But it's not your fault he is actually a living breathing skeleton with expressions and emotions, that was just plain _cool_. What were you even supposed to do when something that cool appeared in your life? Stare it into oblivion, of course.

You'd been rambling inside your own head, you realized, so you just turned your head away and said, “If you put it into drive and press the gas, car will go forward. Steering wheel is for steering.”

“Really?” He questions, a hint of laughter in his tone. “Are you sure you aren't _steering_ me wrong?”

You stick your tongue out at him, because you were the master of well-executed comebacks. You regret this decision immensely when he unexpectedly starts driving the car, _WAY TO FAST._ You get stuck somewhere between a scream and gurgle as you bite your tongue painfully.

 

“whoa.” He enunciates flatly as the car slides to a stop. “ _Whoa_.” He says again, his tone taking on something near a kid after his first roller coaster. He looks at you eagerly, his grin showing quite a bit more pointed canine than it normally does.

“Good job? Try not to murder my heart this time.” He takes your plea to heart, and when he starts up again it's much slower. He guides the car around the parking lot a few times, picking up some speed at points and making a few turns that led you to question the wisdom in letting him drive your car. After he'd reversed it and driven in circles for far longer than was strictly necessary, you decided that it was time to get actual adult stuff done. This decision was quite a bit harder after you glimpsed his unreasonably excited face, but you really actually did have to get food.

He took it well, especially after you told him you guys could do this again. You made a mental note to pick up a pamphlet on studying for the permit test for him, shoved the pillow he had needed to sit on off, and drove the both of you towards town.

You stopped by the DMV as quickly as possible. The DMV was a place you wanted to spend the least amount of time possible in any situation, and that held just as true when you were swooping in for an educational pamphlet on driving. Sans waited out in the car (you could see him from inside) And it was as quick and painless as it possibly could've been.

You tossed it at him with a flippant 'study that', something he took to immediately – sadly, he didn't have the time to get much done as you pulled into the supermarket soon after.

 

He hopped out compliantly after you opened the door, his small feet hitting the pavement in unison. You went ahead and got a shopping cart in preparation of the bountiful food you were going to buy, you'd been putting this off for far too long really; that held twice as true now that there was someone in the house who had the qualifications to cook.

It was a nondescript shopping trip, all-in-all. You tried to pay serious attention to where Sans's gaze lingered; there was a nagging feeling inside you he wouldn't ask for what _he_ wanted. You were proved right when he directed you to various pasta and Italian ingredients (you ended up with three packages of uncooked noodles??) But refused to even give his opinion on everything else.

Still, you were perceptive when it was called for, and that was the only reason you noticed when his gaze lingered a little longer on the condiment section. When you marched determinedly down it, he reluctantly followed. This time it was a bit harder, but you eventually decided it must be ketchup. He had stringently avoided looking at the display of big, red bottles. Reverse psychology, or something to that extent, foiled him in the end. The look on his face when you grabbed as many as your hands could carry (only four, but they were all super-sized) and shoved them in the cart was all kinds of good; you were pleased as punch with your master deduction skills.

Sans stubbornly didn't give you any more hints about what he liked, so you resigned yourself to taking pride in finding even one item he seemed to have an affinity for.

 

The cashier was cordial as you checked out, and Sans helped you carry the bags to the car. The one he held stuck up above his face, making it impossible to see without some head-angling shenanigans. You tried to pretend you totally weren't staring at him as he carefully made his way to your car, though you weren't entirely sure it worked.

Once everything was settled, he resumed flipping through the pamphlet on driving as you maneuvered the car home. It was a peaceful silence, broken only by the flipping of the pages and low cussing whenever someone was an asshole driver.

 

Around when you got to the bottom of your driveway, Sans looked up at you with a serious face, pamphlet still held open on his lap. “You'll protect Papyrus, right?”

You ignored the fact that seemed ominous as all get out, and responded with a surety you could feel in the magic running through you. “Yes. Always.” The thrumming inside you spelled out _mine._ _Minemineminemine_ like a greedy child; the magic that had been so misused up until now had found something that needed protecting, and it had latched on tightly. You knew there was no use even trying to abandon the skeleton brothers at this point, your soul would simply not allow it. So yes. Always.

 

It was again quiet. There was no need to talk.

 

To both of your relief's, Papyrus was safe and sound. So were the kittens, who had probably never removed themselves from the taller skeleton, as they were still clinging on him as he greeted the both of you enthusiastically. You couldn't help but think of the way a dog greets it's owner, luckily Papyrus refrained from licking either of you.

He helped bring the groceries in, something you were grateful for. The kittens were gently plucked from his being beforehand to avoid any accidental squishing, and the three of you made short work of bringing all the food in. You didn't miss the way Sans's flushed when you purposefully plopped all four ketchup bottles down in the lowest cupboard, somewhere easily accessible by his small stature.

You thanked them both, then re-thanked Papyrus as he started cooking food the second everything was in order. To your chagrin, your stomach made itself known with an angry 'Grhhgghh' as you were thanking him the second time.

You had expected Papyrus to laugh it off, or make some comment about the food he would prepare to end your stomach's woes, but neither of those options came true. Instead, his eyes sockets got very, very wide and he said in a shell-shocked voice, “Did you just growl at me?”

His voice was so small. You found yourself actually wishing for his loud, booming voice, the one that was sure to give you hearing problems well before your time. Sans was standing right beside him now, eye sockets so wide; the expression on his face made you want to rage, to attack, to _**destroy**_ whatever had caused it.

But this time it was your own stomach and a misunderstanding, and you were aware enough to understand disemboweling yourself would not actually be helpful in this particular situation. So you tried your best to tamp your magic down, magic that only understood that _yours_ were in distress.

It crackled still, electrifying the air, but you forced your mouth to move anyway. “No, not exactly. My stomach did.” You tried to keep your voice as peaceful and calm as possible with all the magic bursting from your pores, and apparently you did a decent job at it as both the skeleton's stopped looking like they were seconds away from being hit with a freight train.

 

“Your stomach? Is it... a threat?” Sans sounded like he was embarrassed to come even close to saying those words, much less actually do it. But now was not the time to revel in his _aw_ kward.

“No no nono, it's just hungry.” That didn't appear to help either of them, so you continue, trying to pull all the Biology knowledge you had out of thin air. “It's trying to digest food that isn't there? Human stomachs like, squish food to make it easier to suck the nutrients out of, and it's trying to squish the food but there's no food cause I'm an idiot who decided she wasn't going to have breakfast or anything, and squishing the emptiness makes a noise cause that's just how it do.”

Okay. Maybe that was TMI. It does seem you got the point across though, as both of them look quite a bit more relaxed.

“HUMAN, I AM SO SORRY FOR MISJUDGING YOUR INTENTIONS! THE GREAT PAPYRUS SHALL DO HIS BEST TO MAKE A PASTA TO APPEASE YOUR STOMACH TO IT'S FULLEST EXTENT.” You relax, possibly too much, at the return of Papyrus's wonderfully loud voice.

 

He ushers you and Sans out of the kitchen, stating that he needs full control over the domain if he is to create a masterpiece worthy of your stomach. Or something like that. Honestly, you were too busy being relieved you guys hadn't gotten into an actual fight over your _stomach_ , of all things.

You plop down on a couch and Sans follows right after, looking at you inquisitively. Lucida paws at your leg with a paw so tiny you can't help the keening noise you make at the kitten. You control yourself from completely baby-talking it as it climbs up on your lap, circling then sleeping without much pomp.

You stroke the kitten gently as Sans starts talking. “Your stomach squishes things? Do you like, control that?” He looks a lot nicer than he did in the kitchen, curious eyes filled with glowing eye lights.

“Nahh, it's an unconscious deal. Would be kinda difficult to constantly be contracting your stomach after you ate.”

“That's so weird.” He exclaims, seemingly breathless from the fact that yeah, your stomach does peristalsis. Just like every other stomach.

“Well what about you?” You question, a mixture of defensiveness and curiosity egging you on. “What even happens to the food you eat? It's not like you have a stomach.”

“Hey! _Chyme_ offended.” His grin is lazy, but his eye-lights flicker.

“How do you even know what chyme is?” If he knew about what the mix of stomach contents was called but not the fact the stomach made noises sometimes, well, his priorities were so out of whack you didn't even know what to do about that.

“A true punmaster never lets an opportunity slip by them.” He had the audacity to sound smug.

 

You decided that pursuing that topic wasn't going to provide you with anything useful. “Okay, _punmaster,_ what the heck happens to the food you consume?” This topic, however, still intrigued you.

“It turns...” He paused dramatically. You were unimpressed. “Into pure _punergy_.”

Now you were _really_ unimpressed.

“Fine, I'll just ask Papyrus.” You snip, ready to remove the kitten from your being so you could actually get to Papyrus.

A bony hand wraps around your arm though, and you find yourself right back where you started. “Hey!” You exclaim.

“Sorry, sorry. I was planning on actually telling you eventually, didn't realize you lack the refined humor it takes to appreciate puns.”

You stuck your tongue out petulantly, even though you knew this meant you had won.

He launches into a surprisingly science-y explanation of energy breaking apart matter to release more energy, and you focus on the curve of his mouth. The thin bone around his eyes. The canines that flash whenever he opens his mouth just a bit wider. How science and puns and protectiveness fit together, where the cracks in his soul come in.

“Did that make sense?” He finishes, obviously pleased with himself.

“Yes.” You say, out of impulse more than anything else. _But_ _ **you**_ _don't_ your subconscious adds, and you're grateful that reading minds was not a capability magic possessed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I did the thing. Please review, I answer them all and all your comments on this story encourage me to write more and more and more and more. Also I couldnt figure out how to do the nice neat link thing last chapter, I'm sorry? I followed all the directions on this tutorial I found but RIP me I guess


	6. Human Have Skeletons Have Humans Have Skeletons

It had been three days since your stomach 'threatened' Papyrus, and Sans was scared. This wasn't exactly unusual, Sans was always scared, really. Down in the marrow of his bones, where magic and gristle intertwined into the core of his being, curled around his soul like so many vines.

He had lots to be scared of, after all. Lots and lots and lots, and they all burned his mind when the sky was too-bright and too-empty, which happened quite a lot on the surface.

Not that he didn't like the surface. Oh, he would say that he'd convince the kid to stay down under next time (there was always a next time, the way he lived); they'd live lifetimes on lifetimes on lifetimes of general fuckery within the safe confines of a stoic mountain, repeating the same old song and dance that even if he lost, well, he still knew every move. He could tell himself this, use it as a comfort when the world was freakishly big with entirely jagged edges, but he knew if push came to shove he'd beg to return to stars and sunsets and too-empty skies until all his magic and teeth just fell out of his mouth like so much decay. Because he could still feel the low rumble of an engine under him, could still see the tilt of your lips when you snagged no less than four family sized ketchup bottles, could still feel the way the kittens had purred when he'd stroked them, long bones trailing through fur so soft he was almost sure he was dreaming.

But he never dreamed dreams, always nightmares that chased him through waking hours, forming shapes and shadows in the precious few seconds after he teleported, right as he turned away from a window, the split second before he fully saw under a chair, a table, a bed. Dark figures that he knew and didn't at the same time, images of a past that was never fully recovered in any way, markings of a future he was entirely sure he didn't want. Yet it was all so new he was unsure how to avoid it, could feel it creep on him every time he made a choice without knowing the consequences, and now he never knew the consequences.

And he supposed that was the part where he didn't like the surface. The part where everything from the point of him watching his first sunset onwards was something he was completely unprepared for, had never experienced before and could quite possibly never experience again. It was scary and thin like ice and he wasn't used to being so off-balance, not when he had upwards of a thousand times underground to perfect every action, every smile and smirk and all the puns he pulled. Here it felt like he was _running running running_ in perfect darkness, the only illumination coming right after he stepped down so he could see, just for a split second, how much he had fucked up.

And he was so, so scared he'd fuck up horrendously, make you hate him (rightfully so) with all your being. If you hated him it would be right back to the endless struggle to just survive, and Papyrus didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve how very little his own brother could give him. Maybe you'd let him stay, because Papyrus was so _good_.

 

He wondered, sometimes, why he wasn't.

 

But the thing is, Sans was selfish and greedy and he would take everything he was given, cling to it with an urgency that can only come from a history of not having anything but his old bones and tired magic. And he wasn't sure if he could handle it if you kicked him out, back to the cycle of dirt and decay. Back to the endless applications for jobs he knew wouldn't take him, the untimely arguments with landlords where he had to demur or die.

He really, _really_ didn't want to go back.

And then you walked into the kitchen and it was time for him to stop thinking about these things, because you focused on his face more than anyone else ever had and he's not very sure he likes it.

 

“G'morning.” You sluggishly greet, bare feet leading you to the coffee machine.

He feels compelled to point out the fact it's three in the afternoon, but it wasn't as though he kept better hours.

The machine whirs to life, coffee dribbling into the pot. You halfheartedly tug at a strand of hair that until that point had been sticking up and to the left, trailing after your every movement like some kind of weird accomplice. You give up on that project, letting the strand float back up, and turn your attention to acquiring mugs. “Ya want 'ny?” Your sleep riddled voice alights something in him, he squashes it down without even bothering to guess at what it is. Avoidance is a virtue, after all.

“Sounds great, it's _bean_ a while since I had coffee.” He smirks with smugness at his wonderful pun, and it only grows wider when you abort the mug mission, throwing yourself against the fridge instead and letting out a long, low groan. You lay there a second, the perfect picture of a tired mess. Your dark eyelashes flutter for a second, as though you were half contemplating giving up on the day (or what was left of it, anyway) right then and there.

After a prolonged second of stillness in which he was entirely sure he'd have to cart your sleepy being back up to your bed, you take out two mugs, filling them both – not too much though, you were both suckers for sweetness. As you hand his to him, your eyes (they were still very pretty eyes, even without the magic flashing in them.) linger on his face, getting stuck there as though he had something between his teeth.

He could feel a flush rising under his cheeks, he never did very well with scrutiny. Too many secrets. Too much he needed to keep hidden. Too much inadequacy, and everyone would see it and understand how much of a fake he was if they just stared in the right place at the right time. It made his breath catch, his magic race.

“What?” He chokes out, eager to stop your visual inquisition, all too aware he would always come up wanting if someone ever took the time to _see_ him.

“Sorry.” You rasp out, eyes still fixed on his face. “You're just... you're a skeleton.”

His magic bottoms out, and he was sure if it was visible at that exact moment you would wonder why it was all draining onto the floor. You hadn't said it like it was a problem, but he understood in that moment that it was. You stared because he was different, made of bones and magic and dirty things, and it was a gross and unstable feeling to know he was something of a car crash to you. You shouldn't look, but you can't look away, because he was uncanny in all his being.

 

“I am.” He says, and he leaves, and he doesn't come back.

* * *

His coffee is still there, cold and carefully untouched at three in the morning when he'd choked on too much ash within his own mind to even consider falling back asleep. He downs it in one go, and wonders.

* * *

He finds that with a combinations of boots, sweats, gloves, and a hoodie with the hood bunched up around his head you can kinda almost possibly mistake him for a human. A really, really pale human. With large, gaping holes for eyes.

He huffs in misery and not for the first time, wishes he was actually human.

* * *

You had quickly noticed that 'stir-crazy' and 'Papyrus' was not a good combination. Luckily, you were also perceptive, and with Papyrus that was hardly a necessary virtue to figure out what he likes. So after being bombarded with 'royal guard' this and 'training' that for a good few days, you took him outside (where they had still not been given a tour. Sans thinks about asking, sometimes, but he hasn't yet.).

Sans kept a careful watch as the two of you 'trained', but it was easy to see you were both just kidding around. Still, he watched with far more intensity than he really should, flinching imperceptibly whenever an attack flew just the slightest bit close to one of you.

The kittens crawled on him, Lucida managing to slip under his hoodie to curl in the warmth that resided under. Vivaldi perched on his lap, gazing at the battle raging as though she actually understood what was happening.

He earned a petulant mewl when his body jerked as you shot towards Papyrus, but bones blocked your path. Instead, you clung to them like some kind of spider-monkey, then vaulted over to where Papyrus resided, looking smug as all get out. Watching you fight now is so different from ever before, Sans thinks as you gently tap Papyrus on the forehead; you're so much more composed right now it's hard to rectify the you who had choked a man with pretty, pretty eyes until he drew his last breath with the one who grins at Paps whenever he gets a hit in. An occurrence that repeats itself when you aren't fast enough in executing a backwards roll to avoid a bone he's using as a sword, it catches the bottom of your foot, slicing down the sensible boots you were stuffed in. He grimaces as Papyrus pushes the advantage and takes the offensive, slashing you nearer and nearer to a trap of bones laid out behind you. He's sure you're going to fall on them, but at the last moment you grab the bone in Pap's hand and tug him, using the momentum he had already gained from attacking you to throw him over the bones. Sans is about to intervene when you chuck the bone-sword into the distance and grab on to Papyrus, hoisting him back into an upright position. He flashes you a smile and a thumbs-up, and then you're both back on the defensive, circling each other like one of the weird fighting movies that had ended up underground.

 

What finally got him was a fireball you blew at Papyrus, melting all the snow in it's path. He couldn't see Papyrus beyond the roaring flame, and he let out a pained yelp as his magic spiked and he shot up. Both kittens tumbled to the ground, shooting him disgruntled looks, but his eyes were fixed on Papyrus (who was perfectly fine). Papyrus was, however, staring at you.

 

This made Sans stare at you. And he realized you were staring at him, concern riddled in your eyes, and more importantly, not staring at the bones Papyrus had shot off in the cover of the fire.

 

He didn't have time to even reach towards you, to even try to save you or attempt any kind of warning, because the first one _thunked_ dully into your thigh as he watched in horrified repose. The second one sliced your wrist and just kept going, landing with a sick noise in the snow behind you. The third one, aimed straight at your pretty, pretty eyes only scraped your cheek since you had actually turned back at that point.

He almost threw up as you collapsed into a kneeling position on the ground, face pale to match the snow around you. Your blood was so utterly vibrant as it dribbled onto the white background, staining everything around you a vicious color. Sans was not entirely sure what it took to make a human die, (Frisk had been so unpredictable and so _determined_ , and sometimes they died with just one attack and sometimes they just wouldn't die at all, and he could never find a pattern) but you looked worse than he'd ever seen you, and it made him fear the worst.

You fell over, hair splayed around you as you took quavering breaths. He was frozen, but Papyrus was better than him, so Papyrus was there, yelling and crying in equal amounts. His heart soared when you managed a smile at his younger brother, the small action reassuring.

The bone that had stayed stuck in your leg left existence with a 'pop' as it's magic dissipates, and you heave yourself back into a sitting position. Blood gushes lazily out of your leg, fading from a deep crimson to a rosy pink the further the snow dilutes it.

You gasp, heave out air, and then cover the wound with your hands. Papyrus is yelling still, but Sans finds he can't hear the words over the soft gasps you keep making. He knows that's illogical, but if tunnel vision exists, he now has tunnel _everything_ because it's all you right now.

And he watches between the cracks of your fingers as your skin melts back together, all the gristle inside you slipping back into place. Papyrus is stunned, Sans is stunned, and you lift your wrist to your gaze and stare absently at the chunk of skin barely hanging on. Sans catches a glimpse of white within you, and he's scared because it looks so unlike the rest of your insides he's sure it's not supposed to be there.

 

“What's the white stuff?” He chokes out.

 

“My skeleton.” You reply with a smile. And then you pass out.

 

And let me tell you, that leaves just _**shittons**_ of problems.

* * *

When he has finally managed to convince Papyrus that you had not, in fact eaten a skeleton (He was almost entirely sure you didn't anyway.) or died either (he could feel your magic pulsing, it was weak, but it was there) he liberated your phone and looked up 'human skeleton?'

And found humans just naturally have skeletons inside them. And that it was just accepted as how things are. They're born with them inside them, and they die with them inside them.

He was not entirely sure what to think of that.

He supposed he could understand why you stared at him so often though. His heart dropped just the slightest bit at that realization, like he'd wanted another reason, but he pushed it away and worked on looking up how to fix you.

 

* * *

No one slept until you woke up. Not Sans, not Papyrus, not the kittens.

When you did wake up, it was two in the morning and you did it with a gurgling noise that made him shudder. Your eyes opened, and he was relieved to find they were just as pretty as they had been before.

“Wha-”

That was all you managed to get out before Papyrus overtook you with his booming voice, “YOU HAVE A SKELETON INSIDE YOU?!? DOES IT NEED TO BE LET OUT?”

Your head falls back to the couch with an audible 'thunk', though Sans is sure that's not the only reason for the grimace on your face.

“No, Paps.” You sigh out, eyes shut against the barrage that had assaulted your senses. “It's _my_ skeleton. It's a part of me. It holds my body up.”

“WHY DO YOU HAVE A SKELETON?!” Papyrus is sounding damn near hysterical, more so that Sans had ever heard. You whimper slightly at the noise, a sound that makes Sans's skin prickle.

“S'human thing. Dun worry 'bout it.” You rasp out, then still. Sans can tell you passed out again.

He ushers Papyrus out, giving him the kittens and telling him to sleep. He loved him with all his being, but he knew that a healthy dose of Papyrus wasn't exactly the best thing when you just wake up. Now that it was more certain that you were okay, he actually felt decent about removing Papyrus from the room. He could tell his brother had felt horribly guilty, but hanging around you waiting for you to wake up again wasn't proving to be very helpful.

From the eventual cessation of noises, Sans could tell Papyrus had gone to bed. He pondered doing the same, but all-nighters weren't exactly foreign to him, and he had a few questions for you.

Luckily, Lucida had opted to keep him company instead of spending the night curled around Papyrus's bones as she usually did. Sans stroked her soft fur and watched the snow fall in the dim square of light your lamp projected.

* * *

It was four when you woke again, sleep lidded eyes twitching just enough to gaze at him. You scanned the room as Sans scanned your face, looking for anything to reveal your emotions.

Nothing came as your eyes landed back on his.

You brought your arm up to your face, the bandaging job around your wrist haphazard from how hard his hands had been shaking.

“Thanks.” You rasp out, then flinch. “Water?” You ask. He brings it to you in silence, and you down the whole glass. “How's Papyrus?”

“Shaken up.” He replies truthfully.

You let out a small huff that might've possibly been a laugh. “It wasn't even that bad.”

Sans wonders what, exactly, 'that bad' was to you. “Why didn't you tell us you have a skeleton inside you?” He asks instead.

This time you snort ungracefully, and he finds himself feeling defensive. “It's not exactly a secret, every human has them.”

 

Sans thinks about the crunch of Frisk's body, the shattering noises and the cracks and the way he refused to look at the remains after he killed them.

 

You continue, oblivious to the fact he was a murderer. “It's pretty easy to see, too. Why did you think I had teeth just like you guys?”

He finds he doesn't exactly know the answer to that question.

“And my skeleton, like, protrudes.” You sit up and tap your collarbone to emphasize. He runs his finger over his own, wondering what it would feel like with skin stretched over it. “Human can crack theirs, too.” You emphasize this with a _pop-pop-pop-pop_ of your knuckles, and Sans's breath catches in his throat. He shoves down whatever feeling that gives him too, uncomfortable with all the weird emotions he'd been feeling since coming here.

He tries for a subject change, uncomfortable with the way you'd moved to your wrists, getting a nice _crrk_ out of both of them. “You can use a lot of different kinds of magic.” He states simply, hoping the question will be implied.

 

Immediately you still and your face closes off. Your eyes are suspicious and hidden under dark lashes as you look at him, and he feels himself shiver for entirely different reasons this time. “Yeah.” You spit out. “So?”

“Most monsters can only use one.” He explains, unwilling to drop something that's obviously significant. “Three is the maximum, pretty much.”

“It's a human thing.” You spit, echoing your earlier words.

He can tell your lying, living through millions of scenarios tends to up your intuition for these kinds of things. “No, it's not.” He declares, voice soft but insistent.

“I let you keep your secrets.” You growl at him, eyes slanted like you were looking for weak spots. His magic stutters at the easy threat that you knew he had secrets, and he suddenly feels a lot less sure. “You'd do well to reciprocate.”

And then your gone, off in some random direction that was fortuitous in the simple fact it was not next to him. He's left feeling a lot more unstable than he'd like.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooooo For the next few chapters I'm gonna be building up their relationship so when the plot hits it hits hard, be prepared all my lovely readers.   
> Please review and tell me any and all thoughts you have regarding this story, i'll reply to you and we'll have a grand ol' time.
> 
> Also we gon' learn about reader's past, and lemme tell you, it's gon be good. Well, bad, actually, but i'm genuinely pleased with the backstory of this character.


	7. Nothing In Particular Happens, And Somehow That's Significant

You knew a gentle talk with Papyrus was in order, but right now it was three in the morning, you were exhausted from overusing your magic, and the memories you had so carefully buried of a past that had been far from careful with you bubbled up like foam on your father's lips. And how sad it was that you even made an _analogy_ regarding your past, because it _had_ been so neatly forgotten about it didn't even make guest appearances in your nightmares anymore.

You could feel your meticulous avoidance slowly slipping from you though, and you couldn't help but feel some rage at the small skeleton (Not his fault, not his fault not his fault, not _**his fault**_.) who was prying far too close to your soul.

A shudder wracks your body at the thought, and although you knew it was hidden (That had been the very first thing they taught. Keep it hidden, keep it safe.) You had to check to make sure your soul was deep within the cover of your being, so far that even the most sensitive magic users could never see it. You kept it there, tucked within layers of magic and matter, at all times. It had been instilled to you to do it for protection, and you'd listened. Now you understood it was about more than having an advantage in combat. It was about hiding the monstrosity you were.

 

Hiding the monstrosity _they_ created.

 

Blunt nails dug into your arm, a feeble attempt to pull you out of this. You knew this train of thought, understood it would lead nowhere but the same old scabs you'd been picking at for years, the same old coping mechanisms that worked but didn't really, because wasn't it a problem when you were addicted to the cure?

Your vision blurred and your feet stumbled, and you knew the faintness you were feeling was just the beginning of an onslaught of exhaustion that had been banished momentarily by you snapping at Sans. You clench your teeth and resist the urge to go apologize and quite possibly cry on him; that really was not what needed to happen right now. What needed to happen was sleep. But you dreaded the thought of the attempts to sleep, the in-between when everything was blurred gray and your thoughts chased each other down rabbit holes, coming out places you absolutely didn't want to be.

You tried, though. You made a valiant effort with eyes that wouldn't stop staring into darkness, with fingers that twitched at the emotions you did not want to be feeling. You laid there as long as you could take, letting the sound of your breath fill up the quiet night until the slightly-hitched gasps aggravated you enough to provoke your weary mind into getting up.

 

Your knees jabbed harshly into the ground as you reached under your bed, flailing blindly for cool glass. You bump it ungracefully, then draw it back out. A shiny bottle greets you, large and with 80 proof vodka sloshing around inside. It was your favorite, for times like these. There was a reason it resided in the comforting dark under your bed, instead of the harsh light of the freezer. You fished out a water bottle from a case that hid itself under your bed as well, then made your way to the window. You didn't sit, this time, but the sun was just barely peeking out at you and it was something like poetic to down the burning liquid while gazing out at a ball of fire. The water you were holding chased it down, and you thought about the elements and orbitals and auroras and the logistics of having tiny pinpricks of light as your pupils.

It was a while before you felt good enough to sleep, and when you did it was dreamless.

 

* * *

 

It was hard to get Papyrus to agree to more 'training' (it was more akin to 'play-fighting', in your humble opinion) but in the two days since your incident, you had gained an understanding that it was something he needed. Even after you had shown him that you were absolutely, completely fine he had fluttered around you like a particularly concerned moth, commenting on every noise you made like he expected it to mean you were in pain.

He had clenched his fists all the time, the creaking noise it projected perfectly resonating with the level of energy Papyrus had to get out. He started doing things and stopped, wandered aimlessly and reacted particularly badly to surprises, something you found out after being in the wrong doorway at the wrong time. The screech your unexpected presence had earned out of him had kept your ears ringing for a good two hours.

As it was, it had taken about four hours straight of cajoling and promising the tall skeleton for him to be okay with releasing the energy that had been plaguing him.

 

You smile as you counter-grab a bone being stabbed at you, skidding under it to kick out the spindly legs that hold his tall frame up. Maybe his extra energy hadn't been the _only_ reason you had convinced him to spar again, you had to admit this was fun.

He rolls over you, using the momentum to spring back up on his feet. You are quite a bit less graceful as you get up, but it could very easily be attributed to the small, needle-like bones that were falling all around you. They were perfectly precise, never unavoidable, and you had to applaud the control Papyrus was exuding over them.

Of course, you were using the epitome of control as well. Papyrus was strong, but you were very aware that you would get shreked by Sans if he had so much as a scratch on him after this.

 

When you're panting, magic flaring up erratically around you, a truce is called. Papyrus is looking about the same level of exhausted as you, his bones are clacking together and all the ones he had conjured recently wavered like they barely existed. You both make your way through the snow back to your house, where you can see Sans turn away from the window like he _totally_ wasn't watching, thank you very much (you had actually banned him from watching, considering the way he had radiated unrestrained anxiety the last time.)

To your surprise and delight, the aroma of chocolate permeated the air when you get in your house. Sans is blushing something fierce in the kitchen doorway, and you put two and two together easily.

“Hey Sans,” You start slyly, ridding yourself of your clunky and slowly-getting-wrecked-by-a-large-skeleton shoes. “Smells nice in here, huh?”

“I wouldn't _nose_.” He smirks as he taps where his nose would be, if there was cartilage and skin laid over his bones; all traces of bashfulness have left him. Puns really did seem to be his element.

It definitely wasn't Papyrus's, you think wryly as said skeleton whines in the doorway. The kittens that had come to greet him are scared away by the warbling noise, dashing all over each other in a confusing effort to get away from what had been deemed a threat. Papyrus notices and goes running after them, spewing apologies and sparkling tears. It doesn't really help with his predicament, as the kittens seemed to have decided this means they were playing tag, and two more-liquid-than-solid beings that were smaller than Papyrus's hand (At least you think. Now that you noticed, you've never seen him without his gloves.) were not actually very easy to catch. Especially when you had to refrain from squishing them.

You turn to Sans, who's looking after Papyrus with a very fond expression on his face. D'aww. He turns to you and blushes when he notices your stare, averting his gaze to some spot on the floor. His hand twitches like he wants to tug his flipped-up hoodie farther around his head, but he refrains. “Ah, erm... I made you guys some hot cocoa. If you want it. I won't be offended if you don't, it's probably ah... Not very good.”

Your arms twitch, and it surprises you to realize it's because you want to hug him. Huh. Still, you remember the lesson you had learned the very first day: Do not touch the skelly. The skelly doesn't want you to touch him.

So instead you smile and say, “I'd love some cocoa. Did you put any mini-marshmallows in it? Cause if you didn't, well, you should.”

“Didn't know you had any.” Is your simple answer.

You smirk at that, because yeah, of course he wouldn't. They were in the highest cabinet after all. You make a big show of reaching to get them out, and turn back to a face as blue as the ocean.

 _You should take him there._ _He'd like it._

You stop pouring your marshmallows for a second at the thought. Why would you...? Oh, right. You needed to make up for being horrible. Yep. That was it.

You handed the bag to him, seeing how he carefully took it from you as far away from your hand as physically possible. See? You knew the skelly didn't want you to touch him.

 

A gulp of the cocoa makes you forget any odd feelings that may or may not have come from that interaction, simply for the fact that it was _hot._

“Owhhh” You stick out your burning tongue, grabbing it with your fingers to heal it. You're going to be on the wrong side of tired after this last bit of magic use, but peace for your poor tongue was more important.

Sans chuckles, notices you glaring at him petulantly, then breaks into an even more voracious laugh. You pout as best you can with your tongue between your fingers.

Papyrus returns and you finish up your healing. He pours a veritable mountain of marshmallows on his cocoa, delighting in their melting.

“HUMAN WHY DO THEY GOO?” He forcefully inquires after doing some 'tests' to see the extent of the goo. The marshmallow he was currently stabbing at was disappearing quickly, the white expanding to cover more of his drink. A few small marshmallows fall to the floor, but Papyrus doesn't seem to notice.

“They 'goo' because they're melting.” You explain fondly.

“WOULD FIRE MAKE THEM GOO ALSO?”

You come up short at that question, because everyone knows what roasting marshmallows does. It makes deliciousness. “Haven't you ever roasted marshmallows?” You inquire, already quite sure of the answer.

“I HAVE ROASTED MANY THINGS IN MY TIME HUMAN.”

Okay, that was a no. Sans is staring at you quizzically also, which means you _really_ need to show these beings the wonders of marshmallow roasting.

 

All the necessary ingredients are gathered quickly and you start a fire the olden way, with a lighter and old newspapers. Once it's roaring in the fireplace, you distribute sticks to Sans and Papyrus, then show them the ways of impaling marshmallows viciously on them. Papyrus takes to it a bit too intensely, filling up his entire skewer with marshmallows. You accept this as the way it will be, then demonstrate proper roasting technique.

The last part seems to be for naught, as Papyrus kept trying to make them melt (It wasn't working) and Sans kept letting his catch fire and then just not caring about it.

You sigh, pick the perfectly roasted marshmallow off the top of your skewer, and present it to Papyrus. He eyes it skeptically, even though you personally thought your relationship was past the point where you needed to worry about poisoned food. After some prompting, he eats it, and promptly explodes. “GOOEY WARM SUGAR BURNT WHAT?! I CAN FEEL MY BONES ROTTING BUT I ONLY WANT MORE, WHAT KIND OF SORCERY IS THIS.”

“Yeah, Paps.” You sigh affectionately, missing the look Sans gives you in response to the nickname. “That's a roasted marshmallow. Also know as danksauce.”

“I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, FEEL HORRIBLY CONFLICTING EMOTIONS ABOUT THIS DISGUSTINGLY INTRIGUING DELICIOUSNESS.” While he was freaking out (You think this was freaking out. It wasn't terribly different from normal Papyrus but Papyrus was a being of subtlety. Haha.) his marshmallows had caught on fire. He noticed, and this led to more freaking out. “THEY ARE FLAMING HUMAN I HAVE BEEN TOLD THAT MOST FLAMING THINGS AREN'T GOOD AND SHOULD BE PUT OUT EXCEPT FOR GRILLBY I WAS VERY FIRMLY TOLD TO NOT PUTGRILLBYOUTPLEASEHUMANHELPHE-”

You gently say “Papyrus.” As you remove the skewer from his quavering hands. One very big blow of air puts out most of the fire, and you extinguish the rest with controlled breath.

“HUMAN YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY WONDERFUL. I AM IN AWE OF YOUR ABILITY TO HANDLE SITUATIONS THAT EVEN I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, HAD TROUBLE WITH.”

You let out a giggle, genuine and sweet, and thank him. You offer the marshmallows back to Papyrus, but he vehemently shakes his head. You shrug, more for you. The burnt outer layer of the marshmallow is slid off the gooey insides, and you pop it in your mouth. The rest is devoured next, and you let your tongue clean off the goop you'd managed to get on your lips. The next one down is almost as burned as the top one was, and you offer this one to Sans, who is for some reason blushing like it's going out of style. He takes the skewer anyway, and copies the way you ate the marshmallow, making an appreciative noise.

You find his smile is a little on the wrong side of cute and look away. Not today, hormones!

 

The night goes nicely. You all do varying jobs of roasting marshmallows while laughing and joking, and when it's time to go to sleep you're left with a warm feeling in your chest.

 

* * *

 

Too many days had passed for it to be logical, but Sans thought he could still taste burnt sugar clinging to his teeth. It reminded him of better days, of a whole world outside the four walls he was ensconced in. Sans wanted to leave his room, enter the big wide world outside. He also was not leaving it. This would be odd, to anyone who'd never been depressed. But this wasn't odd at all for him, and neither was depression, coincidentally. The corners of the ceiling looked so very sharp, and he wasn't entirely sure what he would do once he left his room, and sometimes when he closed his eyes he opened them and it was a very different time, and somehow that was good. Maybe because he was marching towards a final demise, to a place his old bones wouldn't creak and crack anymore, but lay silent. Peaceful. Maybe it made him feel better because he clung to the thought that one day, somewhere, he wouldn't be sad. It was a fool's dream, one the scientific part of his mind laughed at; prior data suggested he would be sad forever.

He flipped over to stare at a different part of the wall. Variety is the spice of life, after all. His jaw hurt from smiling at his own joke and he was unsure if it was because he smiled too often or too little.

A soft knock made his grin even more painful, eating into the sides of his face until a grin and a gaping hole was his entire being.

“Hey Sans.” It's you, and somehow that's significant. “You don't have to open up. Don't worry.” He sighs at that, because maybe being forced to leave was just what he needed. “Papyrus is worried though, and for some reason he thought I'd have more luck talking to you.” The guilt stabbed through him like long incisors, and he grinned as hard as his face could manage. “He used the _face_... I'm sure you know the one. Never thought I'd see a skeleton do puppy-eyes at me. Well. It wasn't like I could say no, and I didn't really want to. I kinda wanted to. I don't know, I don't think I should be the one here, talking to you when I'm almost entirely sure you don't want to be talked to. Especially not by me. I've caused some bad stuff for you, and I get that.” He thinks it's ironic that you're the best thing that's happened to him since he got to the surface. “I don't expect you to ever really like me, or trust me. Our relationship started on terms too bad for that. Really, I'm not offended. But I also know there really isn't anyone else but me and Papyrus who you can talk to... And I can understand not wanting to talk to Papyrus. I don't think I've ever met someone so pure.” You sigh like that makes you sad, and sometimes Sans thinks it makes him sad too. “So, well. I understand if not. But I'm just about the farthest thing from pure, and I know how it feels to be suffocated by the very idea of doing anything, and if you ever need to talk to anyone, I'll be here.”

He doesn't think he'll take you up on that.

He leaves his room only an hour later though, and he finds this specific bout was shorter than any of his others.

You greet him with some extremely ketchup-y fries, and he senses Papyrus's meddling. But he can't bring himself to complain as you ensconce him in lighthearted small talk. It's something better than nice when Papyrus joins in, and with him the kittens; it was then you all figured out the wonders of kangaroo hoodies and kittens, namely that they fit perfectly in the pocket. His hoodie is passed around, and seeing you wearing it with a kitten head poking out the side was nearly the greatest thing ever.

Sans is broken beyond belief, in a way where even when he is happy he is sad. But he thinks that right now, the happiness outweighs the sadness. It's a start.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
> 
> I'm really appreciating all the comments on this story, every single one of them has made me so happy. They also encourage me to write more, so please drop a review if you're invested in this story and want another chapter right the heck now. Point out mistakes, point out things you liked, anything. Seriously. Do it.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the slow building of a relationship i'm trying to do, I know I am. This is an insanely fun story to write and i've kinda just not done any of my other stories whoooppppsss. Also slight amounts of readers past are being revealed? Their soul is weird? They have dangerous coping mechanisms? All this and morreeeeee in the next chapter
> 
> I hope you all have a wonderful day!


	8. Haha Lame Cliches and Nothing Good

Your poor car veered entirely onto it's two left wheels as Sans twisted the steering wheel recklessly, something wild alighting his eyes. All your insides seemed to follow the car's stellar example of lopsidedness, and you clutched to anything within grasp for dear life, which, surprise surprise, was the 'oh shit handle'. Any noise that could've possibly left your throat at this horrifying display of the dark side of physics was trapped somewhere in your clavicle due to sheer momentum.

Just as soon as it started, it was over. The entirety of your car's wheels rejoined the ground with a jarring 'thump', and you gasped in air that had somehow escaped your lungs. A quick look at the driver revealed he was not in any way as terrified as you were. The only sign that what had just happened was stressful at all for him was the small amount of sweat glistening on his skull, which you just decided 'fuck logic' in response to (For now at least, you'd ask him all about his bodily processes someday. Probably). When he turned to you, his eyelights were so blown you had to wonder if he'd somehow gotten his hands on some hallucinogens, which led to an ill-timed train of thought about whether his pupils would react the same as normal humans. You shook the random thoughts out of your head, ignored the way his big eyelights made him look oddly cute (seriously, he's a skeleton, he can't look cute; you'd have to have a serious talk with whatever part of your brain kept shoving it's weird, necrophiliac fantasies on you.) and spoke up: “That's more than enough driving today.” And then, because it seemed necessary for your sanity, you sighed out a nice “What the fuck.” Before extracting yourself from the passenger seat.

On his part, he didn't do anything more than pout when you retracted his driving privileges of the day, and even that was rendered ineffective when he couldn't stop grinning like a maniac as you buckled up and turned the car on.

“You know, I don't think I've ever been more horrified in my life.” You lie conversationally while pulling out of the parking lot towards town.

“Heh, and I don't think I've ever been so exhilarated.” There's some kind of weird inclination on the word 'exhilarated', something breathy and beautiful. You ignore the way it compliments his blown pupils so well, refuse to even possibly entertain the possibility of _you_ making him sound like that.

You huff out a sigh. “Please don't kill yourself for 'exhilaration'.”

It's a small little laugh he replies with, something between a chuckle and some kind of dark whisper. “We were never in danger. Don't worry about it. You'll give yourself _car_ diac arrest.”

You proceed to ignore the pun, as you have learned is proper with Sans. You, on your part, actually thought it was horribly dangerous for your poor car to be more off the ground than on it. You enjoyed GTA as much as the next person, but there was a limit to the shit your poor heart could take, and it was placed somewhere between the virtual world and your very real and very loved car. “I'm worrying about it.”

He laughed better this time; you counted it as a win. You turned the radio up when one of your favorite songs came on, and Sans got a healthy dose of undeniably terrible singing from you. He took it well, even joining you in the last chorus with a rich melody that made you the tiniest bit jealous of his singing prowess.

You pulled into a parking space by the grocery store, and the shopping began. It was an easy affair, all-in-all. Your shopping list now contained much more condiments and pasta items than you'd ever thought it would, but you couldn't find any reason to care. You appreciated how Sans's eyes went wide when you shoved an arm's length amount of ketchup into the cart with your best I-don't-give-a-fuck attitude and the soft smile he gave you when you acquired the ingredients for homemade spaghetti sauce was something you hadn't realized you needed. The checkout lady was polite, something you'd slowly come to realize you couldn't reliably expect when out with the skelebros.

You were walking across the street to the pet store after dropping off your bags when a car flew around the corner, going _much_ faster than was legal, or smart. Sans was walking right in front of you, and didn't seem to notice he was right in the path of the offending vehicle. Panic welled up in you as time slowed down, the car barreling towards you getting ever closer. All your scattered magic convalesced into a screaming chorus of _mine_ and _**PROTECT**_. It electrified your body, cutting off any unrelated thoughts with the force of a dictator. You didn't know, couldn't tell if you'd be in time, but it wasn't like you could just not try.

 _Sorry._ ' You mentally apologized to Sans, even as you roughly grabbed his hand and pulled him into you, crouching and tensing before throwing the both of you backwards into – thankfully – soft snow. While it might not have been the most graceful rescue you'd ever executed – or the smartest, for that matter – it works. The car screeches by, and you swear that for just a second the man inside glares at the both of you, but then he's gone and Sans is safe and you have to resist the urge to take a moment to just _breathe_.

Sans, to his credit, doesn't seem too confused or shell-shocked or uncomfortable with the measures you took to save him. That doesn't give you a free pass to just hold him in the snow though, especially when you know he doesn't like you touching him.

“Sorry, sorry... Sorry.” You apologize possibly too many times as you separate yourselves, ending up seated on the snow facing each other with no care to the gradually increasing wetness. Your magic was still in uproar, you could tell the deeper parts of you wanted to find the car, find the man inside, and do... Do things. Horrible things.

The urge to rip him apart, tear him to shreds, (He threatened what was yours and Sans was yours and no one can threaten what is _yours.)_ must've been visible in your eyes, your face, the tilt of your lips, because something prompted the soft, comforting voice Sans used _._ “Heh... Don't apologize for saving me for what, the third time? That's kinda pathetic on my part. You should try letting me be the hero sometime.” He winks at you, but he wasn't getting the point, and somehow to your frazzled brain this meant you had to ramble out an unnecessary explanation.

“No, no no I wouldn't apologize for saving you, especially since everyone in this town seems to have you on some kind of hit list.” You shudder a bit at how many people show outward hatred towards your housemates. Your magic spikes, choking you, and you have to take a deep breath. “But uh, there was a lot of touching involved in that particular rescue attempt and I get that you don't want me touching you – which is absolutely and completely fine, really, I understand – but uhmm I just wanted to acknowledge that I probably could've done that a much better and less dramatic way that didn't involve you landing on top of me which involved way-”

“Wait, wha?” He questions, interrupting your rambling. Probably for the best.

“Uh I'm uh trying to apologize? Cause I really respect personal space and boundaries and-” You cut yourself off from verbally spewing your mantra of _don't touch the skelly, the skelly doesn't want you to touch him_ at him, and just end with a weak “Yeah”.

“Well, I don't 'member ever saying don't touch me.” He chuckles as a person walks past and eyes the both of you suspiciously.

“I mean yeah but uh nonverbal communication is really important and you avoid touching me” You avoid adding 'like the plague', but it was a near thing. “So I kinda figured?”

“Oh man, nah. Don't worry about it. I'm just kinda a skeleton, in case you hadn't noticed, and I figured you didn't want a reminder of how your insides feel.” He explains.

“Wait so... You've been avoiding touching me because you thought I wouldn't like it.” He nods, an amused smirk on his face. “And I've been avoiding touching you cause I thought you didn't like it?”

“Sure seems that way.” He drawls.

“Oh. Okay. So touching is okay?” You just had to make sure.

“Touching is okay.” He confirms.

“Cool.” You say, feeling like the exact opposite of that. “Would you like to get cat food now?” As much as this was something like a revelation, you had shopping to do goshdangit.

“Sounds _purr_ fect.” Of all his puns you could chuckle at, you chose that one. The grin he bestows upon you almost makes it worth the lameness of the pun.

You get the nice, expensive, wet cat food, because you can.

And then you go home. Because you can.

And you didn't touch, but the thought that you could, that he wouldn't mind; it was there.

 

* * *

 

Christmas was coming up soon, and you weren't entirely sure what to do about that. The things the skelebros knew about surface life were wildly varied with what seemed to be little to no correlation. You could go ahead and get them presents, but you didn't want them to feel obligated to get you anything. How could they, anyway? It wasn't like they had money. But you didn't want to not get them anything, because you enjoyed spoiling them and if they knew what Christmas was and got you something... Well, you would feel like shit if you couldn't reciprocate.

The _clink_ of a plate being set down in front of you draws you out of your thoughts. The bacon on it is still sizzling, and you thank Papyrus, who responds in his general manner. It draws a smile onto your face, even though you're almost sure the reason his voice isn't painful anymore is because you have permanent hearing loss. Oh well. You chow down while Christmas-related thoughts fly through your head.

Eventually, you decided you'd get them a present and just not talk about the traditions surrounding Christmas if they didn't already know. It was just another opportunity to spoil them.

You nom on a huge strawberry Papyrus had given you to supplement the bacon you had as breakfast (Papyrus was a great cook, even if the vast majority of his dishes were unconventional. And he had to be repeatedly convinced by Sans that spaghetti for every meal was not actually okay. And be coerced somewhat forcibly to not put glitter in food.) as you contemplate what gifts to get. You knew what to get Sans easily, it was almost too obvious though. But a computer would supplement his curious nature and make it so you weren't explaining some odd human idiosyncratic behavior every day. The internet was also a wildly entertaining activity that required the bare minimum of effort, which seemed to fit Sans impossibly well.

Papyrus was a bit harder, oddly. You could get him a cookbook, but that seemed rude considering his job within your house. You had doubts he'd find as much joy in the internet as Sans would (it was seriously like the internet was made with Sans in mind. You could be lazy AND learn AND annoy people. It was basically heaven, Sans-style.) you didn't think another pet would be prudent, considering the two you already had took up almost the entirety of Papyrus's free time. (Not their fault, he simply loved them too much for his own good.)

You still had a few days though, so you decided to bank on the answer coming to you in that time.

 

* * *

 

Sans was very slightly, a little, kinda a lot freaking out; because he did indeed know what Christmas was (it was Christmas, like, everyday in Snowdin. He wasn't entirely sure why this all came to be, as he'd learned Christmas was a religious holiday up on the surface, and religious was something monsters were not. How could you be, when you can _see_ the soul shatter after death?) and he had no fucking idea what to get you. He couldn't just not get you something, especially when you'd never brought up any type of payment requirements for him to stay after the first night. He was basically a leech on your existence. And it wasn't like he even particularly _didn't_ want to get you something, in fact it was edging towards the opposite end of that exact spectrum. But all the desire to get you something in the world wasn't enough to inform him of _what_ , exactly, to get you.

What could he even get you?

He didn't have the slightest clue what you would appreciate. You seemed to have more than enough money (something he'd ask about, eventually, when everything wasn't so new and fragile.) so anything he managed to scrounge up enough money to buy would probably mean nothing to you. Which wouldn't be a problem, except for the fact it was a problem because he _really_ wanted you to like what he ended up getting you. He wasn't entirely sure why he cared, but he cared and it mattered and he would make it work.

He'd make it work.

He _would_.

 

* * *

 

Sans woke up the morning of Christmas Eve to inky, slithering darkness. He caught the whimper in his throat before it could echo around the too-silent room, and waited with shallow breaths for all the terror of whatever nightmare had woken him up to subside. He couldn't even remember, but the mind-convulsing fear still filled him, made hands he was trying so hard to keep still shake anyways as he waited for it to end. It did, eventually, and he struggled in chunks of air until he felt something like okay.

He contemplated staying in bed all day (dealing with the imaginary terrors of his mind was only slightly better than dealing with the real terrors of the world.) but ultimately let his feet hit the floor in a disjointed _clunk-clunk_ , intent on celebrating the holiday with Papyrus. And you.

Though, it was the 'you' part he was dreading. He toyed with the item weighing far heavier than it's mass would account for on his nightstand, flinching as he ran through your possible reactions for the fourth time since he woke up.

He huffed. Gloves were pulled onto his hands, and he flipped his hood up, eying himself in the mirror. Even with every inch of bone covered but his face, he was still so obviously a skeleton. He pondered about acquiring a mask, then forced himself to not think about it. That would be weird. Weirder than being a skeleton? Maybe. Probably.

Okay, time to actually stop thinking about it.

Anddddd time to start thinking about your present again. Fuck. Unwillingly, he ran through all your reactions again, finding the vast majority of them painful. What if you only pretended to like it? What if you didn't even pretend? He shivered slightly, not entirely due to the cold air, and rethought his gift. He wouldn't just be giving you an item, he'd be giving you secrets, and the thought terrified him. How would you handle it? How would he handle it?

He sighed and rubbed his face, soft bone yielding slightly under his touch. It wasn't even close to the time he had to give it to you yet, he certainly wasn't helping anything thinking in possibilities like this.

He left his room, intent on forgetting this stupid, useless train of thought. The kitchen was emanating upbeat music, drawing him to it, and when he reached the doorway he was greeted by the sight of you and Papyrus dancing while warmth caressed him from the oven; likely where a chocolate concoction was being made, considering the smell in the air.

But his eyes got caught on you, on the dress that spun around your legs, fluttering around tights that showed off how shapely they were in a way he'd never seen; your normal attire consisted of baggy sweatpants (he could approve, it was cold as shit). Papyrus had a very Christmas-y sweater hanging off his bony form, it looked obviously homemade, and he wondered if you had helped him with it. As he watched, you and Paps body-slammed each other midair before returning to your separate dances. He let out a snort at the odd display, and it drew the attention of both you and Paps.

“BROTHER! I AM SO GLAD YOU ARE UP AT A REASONABLE TIME, TODAY IS A VERY WONDERFUL DAY.” Sans had to disagree, with all the building dread choking him, but he wouldn't disagree out loud. Not when Papyrus looked so happy. Still, he was trying – and failing – to disagree with the current situation as Papyrus grabbed his hands and jauntily spun both of them around the kitchen. Dancing, and well, movement in general, wasn't exactly his forte. He could see your beautiful eyes watching him with mirth overflowing from their depths, and it was a helpless struggle to keep his face from resembling a blueberry.

Papyrus's larger frame and greater strength sent Sans spinning towards you, something he tried to correct with awkward footwork that really did more to hurt than help. On your part, you caught him smoothly; a quick hesitation with feather-light fingers let him know he could leave your grasp if he wanted to. Somehow, he found himself a little too happy to even be slightly held to tear himself away, and the bright smile you flashed at him was enough to let him know he made the right choice, even though he knew you would feel all his hard and unappealing edges. You settled into a rhythm of stepping in a kind-of circle, then used the motion to spin him around, ending the spin with a gentle sway across the kitchen as Papyrus did a spastic leg-grabbing head-banging kinda jig in the corner. He let himself melt in your arms, knowing that struggling at this point would probably be more embarrassing than stepping on your foot twice. Oops, make that thrice.

“HUMAN! DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN WE PUT THE BROWN SWEET IN THE METAL CAGE OF EXTREME WARMTH?” Sans was treated to a quick spin that ended with you facing Papyrus in response to this inquiry. He was quite a bit closer to you than when this odd dancing thing had started, and he guiltily let himself appreciate your softness for a second.

“I DO NOT, OH GREAT PAPYRUS! BUT I MAY HAVE SOME TRICKS UP MY SLEEVE TO SEE IF IT IS PREPARED FOR CONSUMPTION!” Sans flinched a bit as your normally even voice rose to levels he'd never heard. It wasn't the strangest conundrum why, since as soon as you opened your mouth he was hit with the tantalizing tang of alcohol.

He gulped just a bit as you sent him flying back to Papyrus, who straight lifted him off the ground and spun him around. He pouted at his younger brother, unhappy at the reminder of his small stature and light weight. Through the spinning world he caught a glimpse of you draining a wine glass between rosy lips before flipping the oven open. A toothpick was procured from who-knows-where, and you stuck it in the cake, watching with wide eyes as you subsequently pulled it out. “It is PREPARED!” You yell the word 'prepared' to the sky, and a small chortle escapes Sans's still-spinning throat.

“HUMAN! I SHALL ACQUIRE THE SWEET NECTAR FOR THE SWEET BREAD.”

“I SHALL ACQUIRE THE SWEET BREAD FROM THE CAGE OF EXTREME WARMTH.”

Sans is thankfully put down as the two of you go about the jobs you had designated for yourselves. He lists to the side as the world spins, and supports himself on the counter to supplement his lacking abilities at staying upright.

Thankfully, you seem to be in your right mind enough to not horribly burn yourself while getting the cake – at least, he's assuming it's a cake – from the oven. You set it on your counter, which he sincerely hopes is heat-proof. Papyrus runs over with a bowl held aloft over his head, Nyeh-heh-heh-ing the whole way. He dumps it on the cake, and thick chocolatey liquid spills over the cake in a fashion that would probably be grandiose if you and him weren't ritually dancing and hooting around it.

Sans isn't quite sure what to do except watch and pinch himself every now and then, just to make sure this strange scenario he's found himself in is actually happening. You can never be completely sure, the way he lives.

But the cake is cut without this beautiful, crazy scene being torn away from him. He's handed a steaming slice, the rich chocolate sauce on it dribbling off the side. He puts a hold on eating for the moment, content to watch the both of you sample your creation. It's like something from Alphys's anime as you each take a bite simultaneously, then turn your gazes on each other as you chew. Papyrus swallows first, and his booming voice is filled with pride as he expels, “COOKING SUCCESS!”

You both high-five, a resounding _clap_ hitting his ear-holes signaling the success of that, too.

It was a warm scene and somehow... somehow he felt a dull, throbbing feeling in his ribcage. Something like jealously. Something insidious and disgusting. Something he did not want anywhere near him.

But somehow, you and Paps seemed so close, so _warm_ and all he felt was the icy chill of the snow outside.

It must've shown on his face or something though, because he was suddenly swept into arms and all three of you did something like dancing, his cake forgotten where it had been put on the counter.

 

And maybe, just maybe, it wasn't that bad.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this chapter.
> 
> I'm sorry if you also don't like this chapter.


	9. Christmas Always Brings The Best Out Of Everyone, Doesn't It?

You passed out at some point, sprawling across a couch in such an elegant way he had to wonder if it was on purpose. He couldn't say he minded your nap, because as much as you intrigued him, it was a holiday and some quality brother time was in order.

He also couldn't say he minded when brother time turned into brother and kitten time, especially when Lucida gifted him with a few licks of her sandpaper tongue. He held his fingers up in awe as Papyrus started yelling. “BROTHER! THE SMALL FLOOF LIKES YOU, THIS IS A WONDERFUL DAY.”

He felt something close to the level of excitement Papyrus was feeling, because when a cat licks you, IT'S A BIG DEAL. Lucida, on her part, didn't seem to care at all she had just caused a commotion, instead settling in his lap like it was for all the world where she was meant to be. He had to agree with that sentiment, as selfish as it probably was. Getting through life would be so much easier with a kitten attached to him at all times.

Cat antics continued into the evening, when you woke up, looking a lot less elegant than you had falling asleep. A small clump of hair had the audacity to stick straight up, something he was sure you hadn't noticed yet, as soon as you did he knew it would be relentlessly tugged back into place. It trailed behind you as you stumbled into the room, glass of water held tightly in your unsteady hand.

“G'morning” You slurred, something he had come to accept as your customary 'I just woke up no hard questions please' greeting no matter what time it actually was.

“HUMAN! I CANNOT UNDERSTAND THE COMPULSION TO SLEEP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY, BUT I AM PLEASED THAT YOU HAVE RETURNED TO THE WORLD OF THE CONSCIOUS.” Papyrus greeted you. You shot him a toothy smile, swaying dangerously to one side as you did it.

“Was your sleep _cat_ isfactorily?”

You actually smirk at his pun, which is a win in his book. “It was pretty _paw_ esome, if I do say so myself.”

He lets the laugh rip from his throat, appreciating the way your eyes lit up at his reaction. Papyrus, on the other hand, was having a very different reaction. “HUMAN, NO! YOU CANNOT JOIN HIM IN HIS INSIPID SENSE OF HUMOR, I DO NOT BELIEVE I CAN LIVE IN A HOUSEHOLD WITH TWO-”

“Punmasters?” Sans helpfully cuts him off, a lopsided grin stretching his face.

“NO, NOT THAT AT ALL!” He screeches, which was about what Sans had expected.

You had disappeared sometime during that exchange, and in between the good-natured banter he easily kept up with Paps, he wondered where you had gone. It wasn't exactly a surprise when you came back with a huge blanket wrapped around you, he had been wondering how long you'd last in just your dress-tights-jacket ensemble. He noticed you'd also gotten a glass of wine, something that sparked the smallest amount of worry in him. Generally, people drink once a day. He thought, at least.

But you were smiling and laughing, and you fell into the conversation easily, and you always seemed so strong. You were fine. Right?

But your words to him, reaching through a door he had felt impenetrable, played through his head right as he was about to dismiss this as anything more than an innocuous mannerism: 'But I'm just about the farthest thing from pure, and I know how it feels to be suffocated by the very idea of doing anything'. Maybe it was nothing, maybe you were okay, but... He was going to keep an eye out for you. It was the least he could do.

You snuggle into your blanket, a small, contented smile curling on your lips, and when the conversation lulls, ask, “So, do you guys like any board games?”

A titillating round of monopoly followed that question, ending with Papyrus screaming, scaring away the kittens, and then chasing after the kittens spewing apologies. He'd knocked around quite a bit of the game with his departure, leading you and Sans to make the executive decision to called it the end. Papyrus hadn't done very well at all, considering monopoly is a cutthroat game, and Papyrus as just about the farthest thing from cutthroat.

 

When everything was counted up, Sans was surprised to find he'd won.

“Haha, good job dude.” You smiled, obviously containing no hard feelings about his status as winner.

Well, that just wouldn't do. “So, what's my prize?”

“Generally, where prizes are involved, you make the wager before the end of the game.” You snark at him, attitude instantly changing.

“Is that so? I wasn't aware of that odd human tradition, so I believe I’m entitled to a prize.” He does his best to make his grin unbearably annoying.

“You expect me to believe that? Anyways, it's present opening time in like, less than twelve hours. Do you need more than the wonderful gift I've so thoughtfully procured for you?” He tries to ignore the panic that rises up in him at the though your gift was amazing, because he was sure his could never measure up.

“I mean, I am a pretty _present_ ious, greedy bastard.” Ahh, puns to the rescue. As always.

“That was horrible, get out of my sight.” The curl of your lips reveals you're joking

A thought strikes him, brought on by the aroma that kept tantalizing his nose from the glass balanced neatly on the floor. “Only if you tell me where I can procure some _win_ e.”

“Wh-what.” Your entire face pinches, and he grinds his teeth nervously. “Okay, first, that pun was probably the worst sound to ever disturb my ears. And second, um, are you sure?”

“Am I sure? Of course I’m sure. Why wouldn't I be?” He tries to control the nervous ticks he _knows_ he has, but it seems futile as his hand goes up to tuck his hoodie further around his face.

“Well, last time I brought up drinking... You just, you didn't – didn't react well.” You bite your lips, and suddenly it's hard to look away. “It's your choice though. You're a grown man. I think. I hope.”

He chuckles, low and hard. “Yeah, I'm of legal age to be your drinking buddy. No worries.”

“Uh. Well.” You stand up, and clutch the blanket tighter around you. Your glass is procured from the ground, and you motion for him to follow you. Once in the kitchen, you open the freezer (something he had never bothered to do) and he heard an audible 'click' as his jaw dropped. It was _entirely_ and he did mean _entirely_ stuffed with different types of alcohol. “Go crazy.” You said in a flat tone. “Wait, actually, don't.” You continued after that.

“Don't worry, _ethanol_ my limits.” It was a spur of the moment pun, pretty horribly bad in the way that made puns great.

“That was... Actually, no comment.” You deadpan.

“Heh, whatever floats ya boat. Any chance I could get what you're drinking?” The smell had been tormenting him this whole time, and he thought that he probably shouldn't go straight to the hard stuff for his first drink since the underground.

You wordlessly acquire a deep red wine and a glass. He was never much for appreciating the alcohol, just the effects, and the entire glass slid down his throat like it was meant to be. He starts pouring himself another glass when you speak up, “Are you sure?'

“Jus' catchin' up with ya.” He winks, and you flatten your lips in a way that wasn't particularly happy. You had no right to call him out on drinking too much though, so you kept your silence.

The tense atmosphere dissipated completely when Papyrus managed to rejoin you guys, successful in wrangling the two kittens that had escaped him.

“Heya Paps!” you greeted him eagerly, and Sans was once again struck by how wonderful his brother was.

“HELLO HUMAN! I HAVE ACQUIRED KITTENS, AND WAS HOPING WE MAY WATCH A MOVIE PEACEFULLY SO THAT THEY ARE NOT SCARED AWAY AGAIN.” Sans knew that wasn't the only reason, it was getting closer and closer to Papyrus's bedtime, but he was sure Paps would vehemently deny this, simply for the fact it was Christmas Eve and he would undoubtedly want to spend the entirety of it conscious and enjoying the holiday. Either way, you easily acquiesced to this request, even going so far as getting extra blankets and preparing hot chocolate for everyone.

He joined Papyrus on the couch while you set everything up, enjoying the nonjudgmental warmth baby cats provided.

When you returned, he didn't miss the sharp smell emanating from your cup. The tilted grin you sent him told him you knew he knew, and he decided it wasn't worth bringing up. You played Christmas movies until Papyrus fell asleep, and he could only assume you thought he'd fallen asleep too, since you turned the T.V. and all the lights off.

He didn't move for a while, but when he did you were in a golden-lit kitchen, a shot resting filled by your crossed arms. Your head drooped over them, and you didn't so much as twitch when he walked in.

He figured now was as good a time as any to try his whole 'helping you' thing, so he ventured a question, “Why so much alcohol?” He flinched away at the words he'd put in the air, the absolute bluntness of them coming right back to bash him over the head.

You tilted your head up the slightest bit, half-lidded eyes dull in such bright lighting. You slumped back down after a few seconds of observation, and he figured you'd leave it like that. He looked at your sagging form, let his gaze linger a second, struck by the similarities between you and some of his... worse days.

“Have you ever heard of the 'last good day' phenomenon?” Your gravely voice scared him, a low rumble in the absolute stillness of the night.

“Wh-wha?” He struggled out, surprised you had bothered with any answer at all.

You straightened yourself and fixed him with your pretty, pretty eyes. He felt like some kind of amoeba under a microscope, careful examination revealing exactly why he was such a failure.

“Never mind. I didn't expect you to.” There was no malice in your voice, but it cut him deep anyways. You took the shot like a pro as he remained transfixed by the gentle movement of your neck, then you stumbled out, managing to be graceful in such a drunken way he was entirely confused about it all.

He stood there for long minutes. The 'last good day' phenomenon. He'd figure it out. If it would help you... he'd think he'd figure anything out.

Immediately he shut that down. Dangerous thoughts, dangerous, dangerous, _dangerous._

He tucked Papyrus in, making sure his lanky frame was as comfortable as it could possibly be on your couch, then forced himself into sleep. It was a big day tomorrow, after all.

 

* * *

 

You woke up to a blistering headache and the overwhelming urge to drown yourself.

Wonderful.

Nothing more alcohol couldn't fix though, but you'd have to keep it on the down-low, Sans had seemed... Upset? Worried?

Which wasn't right, because he was yours and you were supposed to be worried about him, and it was such an uncomfortable feeling to be worried about. You weren't sure how to react, at all, because it had been so long since you'd even been close to anyone, much less have them worry about you-

Oh.

And there it was again, the reason you were going to get shitfaced as soon as possible. Twinkling eyes, kind smiles. A present that you had cherished, now shoved somewhere you doubt you'd ever find again in some fit of drunken rage. The last good day.

And you hadn't even known.

Ahaha, your mind always did tend to get away from you. Melodramatic, they had called it. But was it so bad to call their chittering mouths crazy? You fall out of bed, not even bothering for a semblance of decency, and grab the bottle still stashed under your bed. Vodka and water seemed to be your favorite combination, something most people would scoff at. Or puke at. Probably both.

Fiery numbness fills you as you glug-glug-glug from the bottle, cool glass in your hand contradicting the pleasant warmth. You stash it back under the bed, content to let it sit until you were feeling too much like a fuck-up and too little like an alcoholic again.

Hopefully not soon.

It would be over soon. The end of this season that brought back such happy memories, such warmth, only to taunt you with the fact you hadn't cherished every moment then, hadn't known you needed to. Couldn't, ever again.

You needed a shower.

You drained the rest of your water as you were caressed with a much more soothing kind of warmth than the sternum burning alcohol that was your comfort of choice. You scrubbed your skin clean, cleaner, then maybe past clean into some weird, raw territory. Either way, you slosh your way out of the shower feeling thoroughly scrubbed and warm. It's a good combination.

You dry off, then tug on the softest sweatpants you were currently in ownership of. While you had felt nice and put together in the dress yesterday, you almost always took function over form, and it was time to return to that. A large shirt was shoved unceremoniously onto your torso, and you left the bathroom without further care towards your appearance. 'Good enough' was basically the standard for your life.

Your mind crowed at you for food, and you obeyed, mindlessly wandering towards the kitchen. This proved to be both a boon and a bane upon your existence. On one hand, there was a steaming plate of pancakes sitting on the table that you deemed yours as soon as you walked through the door. On the other hand, there was Papyrus, looking horribly disappointed. Something in your throat rebelled at that look, but you shoved it away with all the sternness your tipsy mind could conjure up.

“HUMAN! YOU HAVE SLEPT VERY LATE ON THIS WONDOROUS DAY. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND HOW YOU COULD REMAIN UNCONSCIOUS WHEN THERE ARE PRESENTS TO BE HAD, BUT WE HAVE STALLED THE FESTIVITIES SO THAT YOU COULD PARTAKE AS WELL.” Oh Papyrus, if you could lay off the guilt tripping, that would be wonderful.

“Ya didn' haff to wait fa me.” You wince at the horribly slurred way that sentence came out. Okay, talking, V.2, “You didn' have ta wait for me.” Better. Not great, but better.

He stares at you for a second longer than you're comfortable with. Thankfully, he ends his inspection of your being and lets you devour your breakfast. You probably broke records with how fast everything was shoveled into your mouth.

Papyrus grins when he sees that you've finished, and in a slightly louder voice than usual announces, “THE TIME OF PRESENTS HAS ARRIVED!”

You beam at him, hoping he'll appreciate what you had decided to gift him, and Sans enters from whatever cave he'd been hiding in.

“Yo.” He greets simply, looking entirely too cozy under stacks of clothing.

“HUMAN! PLEASE GIFT ONE OF US YOUR PRESENT.” Well, you supposed that's one way of doing it.

“Heh, ehhm I gotta get em' from meh room?” You struggle out, trying your best to look apologetic.

“AH, YES, EVEN IN ALL MY GREATNESS I FORGOT THAT YOU MUST ACTUALLY HAVE THE PRESENT TO GIVE IT. WE SHALL WAIT PATIENTLY.” You flinch, just a bit, at the thought of how long they've already been waiting. Ahh, holidays. Sure to bring the absolute best out of you.

Once in your room, you gather up Papyrus's huge present, then carefully acquire Sans's much smaller one. You can't really see as you return to them, but you manage. It is your house after all, you've only been living here your whole life.

You plop down on the floor, ignoring the way Papyrus was excitably eying both packages. You inhale deeply, preparing yourself. You had exhaustively designed this speech while laying in your bed, staring at a ceiling you couldn't actually make out, and you weren't about to mess it up because you got slightly drunk.

“OH, GREAT PAPYRUS. THE PRESENTS I AM BESTOWING UPON YOU ON THIS MOST WONDERFUL OF DAYS,” You had to pause to take a deep breath, vaguely wondering how Papyrus kept this voice up all the time, and also why it was easier when you were drunkish. “ARE THINGS I SEARCHED LONG AND HARD FOR, TO MAKE SURE IT COULD MEASURE UP TO YOUR ASTOUNDING AND AWE-INPIRING LEVEL OF GREATNESS.” Sans is giving you the most amused expression, but you force yourself to look at Papyrus, in all his expectant glory. “I DO HOPE YOU'LL APPRECIATE AND CHERISH THEM.” He looked impressed at your display of Papyrus-ness, but his fingers were twitching towards the box, and you decided to have pity on him.

As soon as you gave him the go-ahead, he tore into the packaging, The first thing he tore out was more a gift for the cats, but you figured he's appreciate it just as much as them. It was a foldable tube, strings with colorful balls attached to the inside. A run of the mill cat toy, all things considered, but Papyrus's eyes are glittering with tears (or maybe stardust, it's hard to tell). “HUMAN! THIS IS SO AWESOMELY WONDERFUL, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SUCH A THOUGHTFUL PRESENT.”

“Haha, I'm glad you like it.” You respond, happy to find the power of speech has returned to you. “It's more for the kittens though, there's some gifts I think you'll like better in the box?”

“OH, HUMAN!” Definitely tears. Definitely. Orange tears, but tears nonetheless. “YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO GET ME SUCH WONDERFUL THINGS! MY PRESENT COULD NEVER COMPARE.”

“Don't worry 'bout it Paps, I'm sure I'll love it.” You're sure he hears you, but he's already going at the box again. This time, he pulls out the largest object in there, which is a bed set. It's dotted with Marvel superheroes, a choice you hoped wouldn't be taken offensively; you had no idea whether Marvel or DC was his preference. He had action figures of both, so you'd just went with the one you thought was cooler.

“Human... Human, this is so beautiful. Thank you, SO MUCH.” You were shocked into stillness at the unexpected arrival of Papyrus's rarely used inside voice.

“Yo-You're welcome.” You respond, off-balanced. “I just thought your bed needed more character to, um, match you? And I know you like superheroes and um well. You're welcome. I'm glad you like it.” Well, that was unbearably awkward.

Papyrus, bless his heart, didn't do 'awkward'. He swept you up into a _bone_ -crushing hug, causing quite a bit of coughing once he finally put you down. He then sprinted up the stairs, the entire way to his bedroom, if you weren't mistaken. Seeing as he took the bed set with him, it wasn't exactly hard to figure out what he was doing.

“Well.” You started as you turned towards Sans' mostly to break the silence and rid yourself of the uncomfortable mushy feelings that had sprung up on you. “That went... Well?”

“Yeah, Papyrus sure was _well_ coming of your presents.” His shitgrin, as you had taken to calling it, displayed proudly that he was making fun of your repetition.

“Oh shut up.” You were truly the master of comebacks.

A steady _thunk-thunk-thunk_ alerts you to the fact Papyrus is returning; as soon as he is in sight he begins spewing apologies. “I AM SO SORRY TO JUST LEAVE LIKE THAT I BECAME SO EXCITED THAT WAS VERY-”

“It's chill bro, don't worry about it.” Sans cuts him off, easy smile laid over his face.

“Yeah.” You compound. “It's super fine, I kept you guys waiting for longer.”

“IT IS FORGIVEN, HUMAN!” Papyrus absolved you of today's sins, which you supposed was enough. “SANS! PLEASE GIFT ONE OF YOUR GIFTS.”

“If I must.” He sighed, looking as put upon as he could.”Here ya go Paps.”

He looked anything but put upon at Papyrus's enthused squeal. Inside the box seemed like nothing very awe-inspiring to you, mostly books and some action figures, but Papyrus was freaking out.”OH BROTHER THIS IS SO AMAZING HOW DID YOU EVEN FIND THESE?!”

“Heh, it took a bit. Wasn't that hard though. That's not all, but you're going to have to be patient for the rest of it.” He's trying very hard to look like he doesn't care, but you can see the warmth in his eyes.

“BROTHER! BUT NOW IS THE TIME FOR GIFT-GIVING!” Papyrus whines even as he gently takes out one of the action figures.

“I think you'll find it in your heart to forgive me.” He winks.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah?  
> Yeah.  
> So, I know I'm dealing with a touchy subject with all the alcohol, and any input you have about that would be appreciated. Any input at all would actually be appreciated.   
> Also, I've never really thought of the holidays as a happy time so here you go some reader past.


	10. A Lot Of Puns Happen And That's The Only Redeeming Quality

Papyrus audibly and very unsubtly 'harumphed', but he seemed to let it go as he turned to you. “HUMAN! IT IS NOW MY TIME TO BESTOW A GIFT UPON YOU!”

“I am honored to be the recipient of anything you got me, Paps.” You respond, not really expecting something fancy. You were proved right on that account when he pulled out a thick onesie, folded neatly with a bow on top; the grin that spread his face as he gave it to you was one of utmost pride and unconstrained joy that he was _giving_ you a gift. What did you ever do to deserve someone like Papyrus in your life? Whatever it was, you were sure you hadn't done enough of it. You take the soft fabric in your hands reverently and let it fall loose to gain a good look at the present he got you; a grin to match his tore through your face when you fully saw it.

It was obviously homemade, but not in a bad way. It was obvious it was homemade for wonderful reasons actually, so personalized and carefully constructed you knew it couldn't have come from a store. The thick white cloth strips that formed a skeleton right over where your own would be were sewn on with expert precision, and the cloth itself was expertly cut from plush fabric. There were triangle ears sticking up from the hood, and 3D whiskers protruding from the cat face the ears belonged to, it's Cheshire grin a tad threatening. Sharp teeth coming together formed something so malicious looking it was hard to believe the cinnamon roll that was Papyrus had made it.

As if reading your thoughts, he pipes up, “IT WAS ENTIRELY HANDMADE BY I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS!”

“Wow..” You start, awed by how amazing he made such a lazy article of clothing look. “This is just... Wow.”

“YOU HAVE NOT EVEN SEEN THE TAIL YET, HUMAN!” He's obviously quite proud of the tail, puffing up with a fiercely happy look.

You spin the work of art around, happy to find a slightly curved cat tail attached to the back, swaying slightly from your motions. It has the same white cloth running down it, looking just like tail vertebrae. The entire back has strips of cloth sewn on it to resemble the back of a skeleton, and it lines up with the front perfectly. “Papyrus, this is really well-made, thank you so much. I don't... I don't know if I've ever gotten a gift this nice. And the fact you made it is just _wow._ ”

“I AM HAPPY YOU ARE A FAN, HUMAN! I WANTED TO GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO SYMBOLIZE ALL YOUR NEW FRIENDS.” He explains earnestly, motioning widely at the sprawl of kittens and skeletons that currently laid around you.

“That's amazingly thoughtful, Papyrus. I'm really... I'm really grateful. Thank you.” This time you're the one who initiates the hug, your arms finding their gentle way around his ribcage. You let your head settle into the crook of his neck, choke down your overflowing emotions, and try to really convey with your voice how much this means to you, “Thank you _so much_.” The end comes out a little whined, your throat betraying you and squeezing all your air out.

He seems to understand though, squeezing you with the crushing force you were slowly getting used to.

When you break away, there's a silence blanketing the area that's thick with emotion. Papyrus looks very close to having the stardust in his eyes leak all over his face, and Sans is turned away, hood pulled tightly over his face. Since you were the one who caused this aura with your uncharacteristic display of mushiness, you deem yourself the one to break it as well. “I think I'm going to go put this on, honestly. It seems like the perfect attire for Christmas.”

“I think that idea is _bone_ ified greatness.” Sans quips, further relieving the heavy atmosphere.

Papyrus, for his part, relieves it more as he shrieks about puns being the lowest form of comedy.

You steal away into the bathroom, clutching the supple material to your chest. The door swings closed behind you, and you lean against it, sliding to the ground without ever breaking your crushing hold on Papyrus's present. You didn't expect anything this thoughtful from either of them... Until yesterday, you hadn't even known they knew _what_ Christmas was.

And now you had much more than an article of clothing, you had a memento. A tie to them, something precious.

It had been so long since you've gotten a present. So _long._ And that present had been stashed or broken or otherwise disposed of by none other than yourself; too mad and too smashed after all the memories wouldn't stop chasing you down long halls, screeching and screaming into your bruised ears.

A familiar tightness worked its way into your chest, pressing your ribs together until it seemed the only way to relieve the pressure would be to openly sob.

Nono **NOnono _NONO_.** You screamed it in your head, let the word steel your being into something stronger. You wouldn't cry. You couldn't cry. What would Papyrus think? What if he thought you didn't like his gift?

You can't cry. Not now. Not after you'd already wasted so many tears. Not when Papyrus, poor, sweet Papyrus had just given you the most beautiful gift you'd ever laid eyes on. The most beautiful gift you'd never deserve, not when your very soul, your very quiddity was such a dark and twisted thing.

 

You had to stop thinking about it. They were waiting for you, after all. You cajoled yourself through undressing and then redressing with promises of alcohol and chocolate, then splashed some cold water on your face. It stabilized you enough that you deemed yourself ready to go back to the brothers.

“It fits perfectly, Paps!” You exclaim as soon as you enter the room. It was the complete truth too, it enveloped your frame in baggy softness, not big enough to trip you up but loose enough to feel comfortable.

“I AM GLAD HUMAN, IT LOOKS WONDERFUL ON YOU!” He enthuses, smile wide and honest.

“Yeah, it's really the _cat pajamas_.” Sans butts in.

Papyrus goes completely still for a second, so the job of questioning this exact joke falls to you. “Was that... Was that even a pun?” You ask, confused about how to even handle.

“Well, it was pretty _pun_ ny.” He sends a wink your way, and for just a second you have to remind yourself that breathing is a required activity.

“Ah, erm, yeah.” You agree in a way that was cringe inducing, even to you. You renew your resolve to get rid of the gross necrophiliac side of you as soon as possible.

If Sans notices anything, he doesn't comment, and it's now back to you for gift giving. You take the flat, blue-wrapped package by your side and hold it out to him.

“Heh, that's heavy.” He exclaims after you deposit it in his grip.

You smile at him but remain silent as he unwraps it, slowly examining as his face shifts from confused, to ecstatic, to skeptical.

“This was... These are... Really expensive, right?” He says slowly, blue laptop (Specifically ordered to match the color of his blush. For teasing purposes only, of course.) cradled reverently in his hands.

“Don't worry about it.” You try to be as casual as humanly possible, something you more than likely fail at.

“But.. This is-”

“A gift I think you'll like.” You cut him off, unwilling to hear wherever he was going with that. “I'll help you set it up after we're done with presents, okay?”

He twists up his mouth, glances down at the object in his hands and loosens it a little. “Okay.”

Papyrus seems all kind of lost, so you go ahead and try to move things along. “So, Sans, what'd you get me?”

He rapidly turns bright blue, looking as deer-in-the-headlights as you've ever seen anyone. Immediately after, his nervous ticks come out to play, the hoodie he's so fond of being tugged around for maximum coverage of his face. You notice a fine tremor in his hand, but right as you're about to take the heat off of him by addressing Papyrus, he pipes up. “Ah, well, _tibia_ honest.” Papyrus squeals, and Sans seems to gain some confidence. “It's nowhere near as cool as a laptop. And I can't give you all of it now, me and Papyrus already talked about it, but if you're okay with it... After he's goes to bed, we're going to be taking a trip tonight.”

You perk up immediately, immensely fond of travel. “Yeah, I'm okay with it, that sounds fantastic!” You didn't even care where it was, anywhere that's not here is generally where you wanted to be.

“Well, that's good. But... Well..” He loses all the momentum he had gained earlier. “Uhh this was so I had something to give you. Think of it as.. a, um.. precursor, to where I'm taking you.” He fumbles around in his pocket, then takes a deep breath before extracting his gloved hand. It's curled tightly around the object, which must be small. You never really noticed before, but Sans has small hands, even all bundled up in the black cloth of his gloves. Cute.

You don't get a chance to reprimand yourself for that last thought, because he's unfurling his hand, and in the palm a small, rough crystal sits. It's a soft blue that seems to glow all by itself, it's luminescence granting light onto the palm of his hand.

“Oh... Wow.” You breathe out, taking the small gem into your hands. It's heavier than you expected, and warm from resting against Sans. You close your hand over it, marveling at the glow that seems to emanate from it. “This is... Beautiful. How is it.... Why is it glowing?” You ask, confused on how a stone, of all things, could be emitting it's own light.

“It came from the underground.” He starts, sending a shock through you. Does this means he's... Are you guys going to the underground? His home? “The magic is really thick down there because so many monsters have been using it for so long. Stones like those absorb some of the excess, and slowly emit it as light energy.” You wonder at the stone in your palm, the glow it shone on you was so gentle. “I know it's nothing compared to a laptop, but I figured you'd like to see where we came from?”

“Yeah.” You gasp out, again fighting suffocating tightness welling up inside you. “Yeah, I think I'd – I think I'd really like that.”

“Glad to hear it.” He says, obviously uncomfortable with the level of mawkishness that has overtaken the mood.

 

“I SHALL BESTOW THE FINAL GIFT!” Papyrus exclaims, obviously delighted with the way this holiday has gone so far. “SANS! I DO HOPE YOU'LL APPRECIATE THIS.” He hands off a small package, which Sans opens carefully. He first holds up a black, floppy piece of fabric, which Papyrus explains with his normal booming voice. “YOU ALWAYS SEEM TO HAVE YOUR HOODIE UP NOW, SO I FIGURED YOUR HEAD WAS COLD AND YOU NEEDED A SKULL WARMER.”

Sans generally didn't wear his hood up? Well, this was news to you. You look over to see Sans stuffing his face into his newly acquired beanie, but he couldn't hide the telltale blue glow coming from his face. Come to think of it... it matched the jewel he had given you almost perfectly. The thought made you happy, something you couldn't actually find a reason for.

“Thanks Paps.” His muffled voice reaches you through the fabric. He stays like that for a minute, taking deep breaths, before shoving the beanie on his head.

“THERE IS MORE SANS!” Papyrus informs him in his normal vociferous manner.

“You can't believe I'd forget about something this _novel._ ” Sans exclaims, pulling a book from the wrapping paper.

“SANS! I GIFTED YOU THAT BOOK SO YOU COULD ELEVATE YOURSELF TO A HIGHER SENSE OF HUMOR!” Papyrus squeals, obviously distraught. The book was titled in a very familiar way: 'How to be Funny For Dummies' Was emblazoned on it, though it looked as though the 'dummies' had been crossed out and 'boneheads' had been written beside it.

Sans noticed this after a second, his grin stretching in such a happy way even you got some secondhand fuzzy feels from it. “But bro, you _pun_ moted it on the cover!”

You don't think it surprises anyone when Papyrus makes an unholy noise, except maybe the kittens. Even their naturally skittish sensibilities had started to recognize that their owner was a tiny bit eccentric. That didn't mean they just accepted his louder outbursts, but they certainly put up with a lot of assaults on their ears.

Sans spewed another pun in response to Papyrus's noise, prompting another, even louder noise. This was the breaking point for the kittens, who ran off, Papyrus following with apologies trailing from his mouth as soon as he noticed.

As soon as silence fell upon you, memories did too. You clutched at the onesie warming you, it's fuzzy fabric providing stability. The stone from Sans sat in your pocket, heavy with feelings of unworthiness.

You shake that all away and turn to Sans, ready to help him set up the laptop.

He notices your attention and gives you a lopsided smile. “You really didn't have to get me anything like this, it's too fancy for a lazybones like me.”

“I thought it was a perfect gift.” You reply, sticking your tongue out at him. “And if you keep saying stuff like that I'll think you don't like it.”

“Fine, I'll stop.” He pouts, and you have to remind yourself to not think skeletons are cute.

You help him get all the good stuff on the computer, connect him to the wifi and show him some places on the internet you'd think he'd like. A few warnings about viruses, a couple downloads, and he's ready to explore the vastness of cyberspace.

“This is really amazing.” He breathes out as he looks up constellations.

“Now that's what I like to hear about my gifts.” You grin at him, and he smiles back, all soft and adorable... Fuck! Not adorable. He's a skeleton. He's just a happy skeleton, which as you have come to realize, is much preferable to a sad skeleton.

God, you need a drink. Maybe you could drown the necrophiliac part of your brain. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

You manage to subtly leave the room Sans was in, determined to make good on your promise of alcohol to yourself without him knowing. Being worried about, as you had recently discovered, was not one of your favorite feelings.

You went ahead and got some tequila out of the freezer. It certainly wasn't one of your favorites, but the proof was high and that was all that really matter with alcohol. You decided to forgo a cup for the time being, instead shoving the bottle in your mouth like the dirty alcoholic you were.

The acrid taste was more of a comfort than anything else, and you let it fill up your being with heat and numbness. Once you had gotten your fill, you twisted the lid back on an went to lean against the counter as your being settled into a drunken state. Your eyelids drifted closed, and you allowed yourself to think of nothing but the warmth twirling around inside you. It was so unbelievably nice, you couldn't understand how some people got through their entire lives sober.

You find the strength to open your eyes, then somehow make it back to where Sans is still typing away at the computer. He looks up as you enter, but you manage to get by without any further scrutiny.

You plop yourself upon the couch, your onesie and the alcohol provided a nice duality of warmth. Papyrus eventually returns to the two of you, kittens in tow, as always. He sits on the opposite end of the couch from you, then wheedles Sans into sitting between the two of you so you can have a “SUPER CHRISTMAS MOVIE MARATHON.”

Sans gives in easily, though he continues tap-tap-tap-ing away on the computer you gave him. It brings a smile to your face that he's already using it so much, you knew this would be a good present.

You sit through Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer as your buzz slowly fades; Papyrus is absolutely entranced by the movie, staring enraptured by the screen like Rudolph is his one true god. At the end he cheers loudly, startling you from the not-quite-asleep not-quite-awake daze you'd been floating in.

 

He then proceeds to start cooking. It's spaghetti, of course, because what else would Papyrus make on such a special occasion? He makes use of the ingredients you had gotten, whipping up a homemade spaghetti sauce you had the privilege of taste testing. It was salty and creamy on your tongue, delicious – but possibly made more so from your intoxicated state.

Speaking of which, it was getting kind of late and you were getting kind of sober. You figured it couldn't really cause much stir if you had a nice hard cider. You dance around the bustling Papyrus, acquiring your savior with little trouble. You push some magic into your thumb, creating a hard coating around it that you use to pop off the cap. The sour cider makes you grimace, it wasn't exactly your favorite form of booze, but you figured chugging from a bottle wasn't the most acceptable behavior, especially in front of Papyrus.

You find a seat on the counter and watch Papyrus cook while downing your cider, slightly entranced by how efficiently he moved around your kitchen. You could imagine how it would look if you were in his place, and almost visibly flinch at how much worse it would be.

Oh well, that's why you'd acquired a live-in cook.

A nice dinner follows Papyrus's astoundingly graceful cooking, filled with laughter and screeching. After that, you popped Mario Kart into your Wii and went ahead to smash both brothers repeatedly. What could you say, Mario Kart was a nice distraction from your previously empty house, and you had certainly needed a lot of distractions.

You treated yourself to a shot for your repeated victories, managing to keep the entire process out of the eyesight of both brothers. When you came back, Papyrus was yelling about cheating and lazy brothers, leading you to the conclusion that Sans had won that time.

It was decided a movie would be a much more peaceful and less competitive activity, and that's what the three of you (plus kittens) did until Papyrus demanded in a sleep-ridden voice, “BROTHER! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, MUST NOW HAVE MY BEDTIME STORY FOR I HAVE BEEN OVERRIDDEN BY EXHAUSTION!” You might have imagined it, but you were almost sure Papyrus sent a wink at Sans.

Either way, Sans complied. You took this abandonment as a chance to covertly get just the slightest bit more drunk, downing a shot, and then another for good measure.

 

Sans returns soon after, blushing up a storm and staring at the ground.

“Wazz wrong, blueberry?” Oh god, oh god, oh god. Those words had not just come out of your mouth. That wasn't what happened. None of that ever happened.

But the shocked look he was giving you only solidified this reality against any you tried to mentally substitute, and you cursed yourself for that last shot. But his blush was spreading more now, and it wasn't your fault he looked like a blueberry!

After standing there gaping at you for a few seconds, he seems to pull himself together. “Heh, sorry. The nickname just really _blue_ me away.”

“Hey! S'not my fault... That was a pun, wasn't it?” He grins at you instead of answering; you pout and let out a sigh to let him know what you think about that. “So,” You start to question, excitement for the late night trip getting the better of you. “How exactly are we gonna be getting underground? I have this strange feeling you can't just drive in.”

“You'd be right about that.” He chuckles out. “But don't worry, I know a shortcut.”

“A shortcut.” You deadpan. “We're going to be taking a shortcut... to below Mt. Ebott. That's far as fuck man. You can't just drill through the ground or whatever and call it a shortcut.”

“That's not what I mean.” He slyly hints. “I'm going to need you to grab on, okay?” His voice is composed and confident as he spreads his arms wide, but his face is still doing a spot-on impersonation of a blueberry.

“You want... You want a hug? You coulda jus' asked, you know.” You're getting more and more confused by the second, but hey, hugs were never bad. Okay, maybe it was kind of bad when part of your brain seemed to be into the dead, (Undead? Never dead but looks dead? You weren't entirely sure which category really fit Sans.) but it wasn't like you were going to pop a boner or anything.

“Something like that.” He only makes you question everything more. “You just have to promise not to let go until I say you can, okay? Promise me.”

And now you've gone past confused into... Confounded? Flummoxed? Befuddled? Probably one of those, but you promise him anyway, figuring it couldn't really harm anything, “I promise, I won't let go until you tell me I can.” He beams at you, and you can't help but feel warm. Probably the alcohol.

It doesn't particularly matter either way as you circle your arms around him, locking them behind his spine. He returns the favor, his gloved hands sliding up your back in a way that made you melt into him.

“Ready?” He whispers in your ear, and you find you couldn't care less about why his breath was so warm against you, just that it was and it felt nice. You nod is assent, almost sure your voice would be nowhere near workable. “Remember: Don't let go.”

And then your world is torn to shreds.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I just wanted to do a mass thank you for everyone who's reviewed and left kudos, you guys are why this chapter is here today. Also, the people who come back and give detailed reviews on every new chapter, you guys are beautiful. I get excited when I post a new chapter cause I can't wait to hear what you have to say about it. Thank you! 
> 
> Also, this story is now long enough to be considered a novel, which is a novel experience for me (heh) But no seriously, are any novels this short because the plot hasn't even like actually started yet in this story and ??? Maybe I'm just long winded. Oh well. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, please leave any thoughts you had on it, good or bad! I reply to all comments, though it takes me a while sometimes.


	11. L'appel Du Vide

You're suddenly glad Papyrus had accustomed you to loud noises as the most horrifying ripping sound you'd ever had the honor of hearing tears through your brain without any sympathy for the intoxicated state it was in, instantaneously giving you a headache to rival your worst hangovers. Wind whips through your hair, strands flailing wildly in what feels like hurricane force winds, hitting your face with stinging slaps that were sure to leave marks. Sans seems to be the only stability as your legs leave the ground, or the ground leaves your legs; either way you're floating helpless in a world that has dissolved into bright colors and loud noises. Your stomach revolts, and you cling to him as much on instinct as anything else, terrified hands balling up the material of his hoodie.

And then, just as suddenly as it had all started, it all stops. You're left with the most profound feeling of peace you'd ever had the privilege to encounter. There is no sound, no light. Everything is the blackest black you'd ever seen in your life, even where you can feel Sans still clinging to you, but the dark is comforting. Nothing can see you in the darkness, and you can't see anything either. No need to hide, no need to look away. No _need,_ at all, whatsoever. It feels like hope. It feels like _home._ It feels like all the things you had ever longed for, stuffed in a darkness that was more comforting than suffocating.

You can feel yourself slipping from Sans, arms loosening in spurts as the darkness coerces you into staying. You didn't want to worry him... But you don't think you've _ever_ felt this good. It was like the split second before drifting off into sleep; the moment you float, weightless, before a free fall. It was all the times you'd ever been hugged, every once of comfort anyone had ever given you. Sans squeezes your middle too tight, bony arms desperately clutching you to him, even as your own inch off his figure. It was uncomfortable, especially compared to the compassionate way this black space enveloped your being. It would be so easy to just push off and leave to float in this heaven, never worried or scared again. Just at peace; finally _home._

And then it's over far too early, replaced by the ear-splitting sound of stars exploding, bombarding your head with it's endless shrieking, colors flashing in front of you like the world was entirely bright lights and neon.

And then that stops too, and your feet are planted on hard ground. You try to stay upright, but stumble onto Sans despite your best efforts. He takes it well as you place the majority of your weight on him, legs that were more liquid than solid at this point refusing to support you. “Wha... What was that.” You gasp out after a second of heavy breathing.

“That was my shortcut.” At his voice, you try to look up, but only succeed in lurching farther into his side as the world spins.

“S'not... S'not good.” You slur out, your tongue feeling too twisted in your mouth.

“Ehh, sorry. It's kinda lousy when you're drunk, which I didn't realize you were.” He really thought you'd call him blueberry sober? That thought is banished from a particularly bad complaint from your stomach, so you don't even try to defend yourself as you slowly slide down his figure, knees touching down in hard, purple dirt.

Wait.

Purple dirt?

You attempt to raise your head again, proving yourself the slightest bit worthy when you don't throw up all over Sans. He's staring at you with amusement, and if these were any other circumstances you'd be embarrassed to be kneeling before him, hands twisted up in the fabric of his hoodie like he was your one lifeline right now.

Yet as pleasant as his face was to look at – even when it was mocking you – what really caught your attention was the wall behind him. Stones were embedded all along it, glowing faintly from their perches in the ceiling. The whole room was painted a ghostly blue, the soft lighting falling across Sans's face like he belonged here.

It struck you that he probably does. Somehow, someway, by making it through the tempest that had been his 'shortcut', you had ended up underground. “You can teleport?” You gasp out, and the world rewards you for your efforts by causing you to dry-heave. Your hands leave his hoodie to support you on the ground, they creak from being relaxed after so desperately gripping him. “Oh fuck, is that water safe to drink?” You question before he can answer your first inquiry, motioning at the slightly glowing river that snaked through the cavern you were in.

“It should actually be better for you than normal water.” He confirms. You attempt to stand as a precursor to getting over there, but end up falling back down before you ever become bipedal. You can hear him chuckle behind you, and your face takes on a burning sensation that you just know is painting it bright red.

“Hey!” You reprimand as you start a careful crawl towards the water. “You didn' even warn me or anything. This is _hardly_ my fault.” A particularly bad roll from your stomach reminds you that no matter who's fault it is, you're the one paying the consequences. You stay steady where you are for a second, letting your stomach adjust, lest you throw up and ruin his opinion of you and this trip forever.

“Sorry, sorry. Didn't realize it would be that bad. Haven't ever tried moving a human before though, shoulda probably taken some precautions.” You go ahead and accept that yeah, Sans can teleport. This answers the question you'd had the morning you'd first met him, when he'd left in such a mad rush and disappeared before you could offer him a ride.

“Wow, I am just _so honored_ to be your guinea pig.” You spit at him, sarcasm intertwining itself in your voice. You make it to the edge of the water, but a particularly bad upheaval on your stomach's part brings some of the contents to the outside world. You are treated to a nice alcoholic spaghetti mixture, and it was not, in any way, as good the second time.

Luckily, as far as throwing up goes it was relatively clean and painless, though Sans sure seems to be freaking out. He's at your side in a second, spewing questions about whether you're hurt or sick and _why your insides were outsides_ (You have a nice chuckle at that phrasing, even while trying to wash out your mouth.).

“S'fine, s'fine.” You assure him between gulps of water, happy the river had swept away the unpleasant former contents of your stomach. “Jus' a human thing.” You move between washing your face and inhaling the cool liquid greedily. At least you hadn't thrown up _on_ yourself, so the cleanup proved to be relatively easy. Once you've gotten your fill of water, you flop onto your back, staring up at the glowing rocks that match the one still safely tucked in your pocket. Sans is hovering over you, a concerned expression marring his face despite your reassurances, and you get a surge of confidence. “Touching is okay?' You question beforehand, unwilling to disregard the fact he had every right to not want you to touch him,

“Yeah.” He replies after a moment of scrutinizing you. “Touching is okay.” You take the compliance and run with it, using the last dregs of your energy to grasp his small hand and pull him down onto the ground. He makes a surprised squeak as he falls half on you, scrambling to get up as soon as he touches ground. You take a page from your old martial arts lessons, manipulating his arm in a way that it throws him down by you right as he was about to stand on his two feet. He lets out a small breathy noise, and you have to remind yourself that your stomach has every right to feel like it just hatched butterflies, considering the shit you just went through. “Ah ah ah.” You reprimand. “You have some stuff to explain to me, and trust me, it's not like I can get anywhere nicer to have this talk.” You curl around his arm slightly, pinning it under you to assure he was stuck with explaining what exactly had just happened to you.

“Heh, yeah, I guess you deserve an explanation. That was something of an unprecedented leap, and I shouldn't have used you without knowing how it would affect humans. Sorry, but it's not like I have a crowd of people I'm eagerly carting all over the place.” He starts out. You glance up at him to find his face a pleasing shade of blue. You, for lack of a better term, snuggle his arm in contentment, allowing yourself this small surrender to the dirty necrophiliac within you. With the pandemonium you'd just been dragged through, you felt like you deserved it, and you could just pass it off as keeping him there for questioning if you or him ever decided to scrutinize it too closely.

“So what was the place in between all the shittiness?” You question; the sense of belonging you had felt there had yet to leave your head, and you had to admit, you were craving it badly.

“That was the Void.” It's blunt, each word sliding off his tongue with the same cadence and velocity, yet you shiver at 'Void'. You remain silent, hoping he'll explain more. After a few seconds, you're rewarded. “It connects places. It's attached to everywhere and nowhere all at once, so it can be used as something of a... stepping stone, to get from one place to another.”

Huh. You'd take it, you supposed. It sounded simple enough, though you were sure it was anything but simple. “What was the fucked up noise?” You had to question, the constant ringing it gave you melding with the longing placed deep in your ribcage into some convoluted symphony.

“That was me peeling back reality to reveal the Void.” That... sounded way too melodramatic. You fix him with an unimpressed look, and he lets out a chuckle. You find you can't help but relax your face into something more pleasant at the sound, a low, rough noise that seemed to roll through you in just the right way. After he stops his fit, he goes on to rephrase it in a less suited-for-a-movie way. “The Void touches everywhere, like I said. It's always just behind our perceptions. As far as I know, no one is sure what it does, though... Someone I, um, used to know thought it had to do with multiverses.” You could tell there was something beyond what he was telling you with that, but prying wasn't really something either of you deserved. Still, the information he had given you was beyond fascinating. “I can rip a hole through the layer of reality we can perceive to reveal the Void, then rip a hole from inside the Void to where I want to be. It only works if I've been there before though.”

That explains why he didn't just teleport to your house the first day. Before you can interrogate him further about the nature of the void, he has you pinned with a concerned look. “My turn for a question.” You tense up the slightest bit, well aware of all you had to hide. Luckily, the question proves to be inconsequential, if only because you aren't quite sure what the answer means. “I told you to not let go, but you were slipping away from me in the Void. Why? You were the most interested in learning about that part too.”

You couldn't see a point in lying, though you were almost sure the strange attraction you'd felt to the Void wasn't exactly normal. That's okay. You were used to being 'not exactly normal'. “It just felt nice.” You go ahead and allow yourself a bit of dramatics if only for the fact it descried how you'd felt perfectly. “It felt like home. I wasn't ready for that.”

“Huh.” His face twists up, and you think you catch a flash of blue come out to flick over a canine. Huh, indeed. You weren't exactly entirely present though, and you didn't feel like grilling him over something that may or may not have happened, so you stay silent. You knew he could have a tongue, the first morning you talked with him had proven that, but you were unaware on if he just kept one in his mouth all the time. Was it a permanent fixture? If your eyes had been correct, it was permanent enough for him to have a tic associated with it. Thankfully, he interrupts you before any of your thoughts can go to lewder places. “That's not exactly the normal reaction.”

“'Not exactly normal' is kinda my MO, in case you haven't noticed.” You can't deny the bitter twist to your lips as you spit that out, the old, well-worn notion that your life could've gone so much better if you'd just been _normal_ itching like a poorly healed scar.

“Yeah, it's kinda great. I don't think I'd like you anywhere near as much if you were like everyone else.” You wince at the reminder of how the skelebros had been treated by 'normal' people; the edge is taken off by the fact you were steadily growing redder from the not-quite-compliment. You glance up to see if he'd noticed the crimson tone your face had taken on, just to see him grinning so hard his (not) cute canines were on full display.

You ignore the jolt that runs through you at the sight in the best way you can possibly think of, by calling him out on it. “Hey, what's that face for?”

He doesn't stop looking delighted as he answers you, “I'm just happy I can get you back for that 'blueberry' comment. What should your name be? Tomato? Nahh, I think Cherry would work a lot better. I couldn't _berry_ it if you weren't a fruit with me.”

“Hmph!” You direct at him, even as the heat in your face steadily rises. As has been mentioned before, master of comebacks you are not.

“Wow, if I knew all it took to take my revenge on all the times you've made me blush was to compliment you, I would've been doing this _wayy_ sooner.” He looks wicked, grin twisting up on one side, the white dots in his eyes glowing with a fierce intensity.

“That's not why you should compliment people!” You shoot back at him, ignoring the way your heart seems to fumble at his words. You take a deep breath and look away, letting some of your anger drain from you. “And tomatoes are fruit.”

“Heh, I guess your right about that.” He acquiesces to your first outburst, then seems to take a second to let the information you'd just bestowed on him sink in. “You're fucking kidding me. Tomatoes are vegetables.”

“Nope.” You're infinitely pleased you know this, just for the reason it takes the heat off you. “They're technically classified as fruit.”

“I refuse to believe that.” He stubbornly says.

“Refuse it all you want, it won't make it any less true.” Those words cause a strange reaction from him, as his face goes blank and his gaze travels much farther than you can follow.

“Guess you're right.” He says it too soft.

You don't want to pry, so you don't. Hopefully, he'll tell you if he wants to. You ignore the fact that if you were in his position, you probably wouldn't trust yourself worth anything. It's okay, nothing to feel bad about, just the consequences of your actions.

Nothing to feel bad about at all. You're making it up to him, right? Right.

You examine the cave you'd been plopped in further in response to his continued silence. Flowers lined the cave walls, heights ranging from a good four feet to mere inches above the ground. It didn't really surprise you at this point that they were blue and glowing. It certainly seemed to be the theme here.

You could imagine Sans living here. Even now, the soft blue light of the room illuminated his wistful features in just the right way. His blue hoodie matched well with both the rocks and flowers, and the dark purple dirt provided a stark contrast to the pearly white of his bones.

“What?” He's staring right into your eyes, and for just a second the whole world is white pinpricks in black sockets.

You pull yourself out of it, and detach yourself from his arm while you were at it. Giving in to your inner necrophiliac seemed to only promote it further, which is actually not what you needed. Still, you needed to reply to him, so in the most even tone you can manage you answer honestly, “You just look like you belong here. Color schemes, and all that.”

“Yeah, I could see that.” He answers, his eyes trailing up and over the beautiful stones. “We didn't live here, me and Paps. He never liked it. Too easy to see the ceiling.”

You hadn't thought of it like that. The jagged rocks jutting from the sky were beautiful to you, with their glowing crystals providing such a calm ambiance; yet you could see it only serving a reminder of your status of a captive, had you been stuck here with the monsters.

You get sucker-punched by the overwhelming urge to _protect_ at this reminder of the shit life these skeletons had given to them, but there was nothing to fight and sometimes it seemed like that was all you knew.

Sans starts getting up, pulling you from the surge of emotions you'd been caught up in. “D'ya think you can walk?”

“Yeah, I can walk.” You pout at the ground. You almost never threw up anymore, your limits had been repeatedly pounded into your head from nights and night and nights of praising the porcelain throne, but it figured the one time you did it was in front of Sans. Life never had seemed to like you much. You manage to stand on unsteady legs, hating the way you felt like a newborn foal. Weakness was always your least favorite feeling.

“C'mere.” He directs, and you obey, unsteadily making your way to where he was poised by a softly glowing flower. “This is an echo flower.” He speaks to you, motioning at it. “Talk to it.”

You examine it as you process is strange request. “You want me to talk to it?”

“You want me to talk to it?” You jump back, cursing as your back leg refuses to support your weight. The ground is hard against your butt, and you take a second to gather your breath as Sans's giggles echo around the room.

You stand after a second, ignoring the mirth in Sans's eyes as he watched you. You march up to the flower, and spit out a simple “No.”.

“No.” Its tinnier than your voice, a bit wispy around the edges, but you can tell it's you.

You turn to Sans, cocking an eyebrow as a replacement for verbalizing your demand for an explanation. “It's an echo flower, and they do just that – echo.”

“Huh.” You say, still facing the flower. It repeats the puzzled noise back at you. “How?”

He wiggles his fingers and smirks. “Magic.”

“Of course.”

“There's more stuff here, if you'd like the grand tour.” He offers, and you're quick to take him up on it. He guides you around a place you start to think magic is really the only explanation for. A bridge of bright green lily pads leads over the river at one point; they hold you easily, though by all logic they should've dunked you right under. A glittering waterfall crashes down onto hard rocks below, bits of trash contrasting with the shimmering liquid. You breathe out an expression of awe, and somehow find yourself even more struck with it when he smiles and leads you across safely, all the trash falling harmlessly by the side of you. An impromptu game of hide and seek starts in grass that reaches above your head, the blades providing perfect cover. You tackle Sans when you find him, smashing down the grass behind him into a comfortable cushion. He shows you his hotdog stand, and you have to choke down your laugh.

“You were a hotdog vendor?!” You can't hold back the edge of hysteria from your question, though. It just seems so... Unreasonable? For someone like Sans, who'd shown ample curiosity and intelligence, plus was powerful to boot... Working a hotdog stand?

“More or less.” Is his cryptic reply, and you have to remind yourself to _not pry._ But man, it was just getting harder and harder and harder.

The next stop has mushrooms that light up when you tap them, illuminating the thin path that winds through one of the darker areas of the cave. It soon becomes a game, you chasing Sans through darkness until sudden light from the mushrooms illuminates the world, the slow fade of it adding a sense of adrenaline. He returns the favor after you've caught him, dashing faster than you'd expect from the nap-loving skeleton.

It's almost five in the morning when he finally brings up leaving. “Hey, this has been great and all, but I'll admit, I had ulterior motives for bringing you here.” Your heart drops at those words, but you do your best to not let it show. Of course he has ulterior motives. Why would he just want to bring you somewhere? “Part of my bro's gift is here, and I gotta bring it back to him.” While it doesn't completely alleviate the gross sensation you'd been feeling, you had to admit, that was a very honorable ulterior motive. “It's at our old house, so I hope you're fine with going there? I could bring you back to the house first if you'd like.”

You, of course, jump at the chance to see his house. “I'd love to go with you! Just show me the way.”

It's a short walk through what you had come to know as 'Waterfall', ending somewhat abruptly in thick, blanketing snow. Underground. Snow. Falling from the sky? Underground.

“What.” Sans turns to you as you say that, asking a silent question with the tilt of his head. You glance up, and can't see the ceiling or the sky, just a murky gray the white flakes fall from. “How?” You gesture at the falling snow and the apparent lack of a sky.

“ _Magic_.” You had to say, you were really growing tired of his little finger wiggle.

He leads you through the snow, which you slowly come to realize isn't quite like the snow you were used to. You don't sink into it, and neither does Sans, though you do leave shallow footprints. It's almost unimaginably white, spreading out through pine forests. When you stop for second to drag your fingers through it, it crumbles just as the snow on the surface would.

“It's nicer here, isn't it?” You look to his voice, seeing him gazing into the murk that seemed to count as sky. He turns to you, examines your face. “The snow, I mean.”

“Yeah.” You reply. “Yeah, it is.”

He leads you to a small two story house in the middle of an abandoned town. It's dark inside, but he doesn't even try to flip the light switch. “They shut down all the power almost right after the barrier was broken. The Core – that's what supplied us power – was horribly unstable, so as soon as it wasn't needed it was turned off.”

You mull that over as he leads you up to his room, pondering on what living here must've been like. No sky, beautiful snow. The same structure granting you power, threatening your life. Beautiful water and talking flowers and a glittering river... and the endless, inescapable thought that you were trapped.

Again, your magic acts up, demanding you protect Sans. But there's nothing to protect him from, everything had already happened. And while it was happening, you'd been training to kill him, his brother, all of them as soon as they gained their freedom.

He leads you to the room closest to the stairs. As far as you can tell in the dark, it's empty except for a large shape pushed up against the wall by the door. Closer examination reveals it to be a race car bed. Papyrus's room, then.

“Everyone was in a hurry to leave. It's all anyone had thought about for years, at that point. So much was abandoned... Me and Papyrus tried to take as much as possible. It... didn't work as well as we'd hoped. Lots was confiscated by your Government, and while we got some of it back, well. I'm sure you were wondering what I'd given Papyrus that was so special. It was stuff he'd already owned, stuff we hadn't gotten back.” You don't have any time to process that he'd gone and stolen his brother's stuff back from the government, because he's continuing to tell his story. “I really am a lazybones, that's worse than re-gifting.” You don't comment on the pun, because the way he'd sighed it out shushed you right up. “It doesn't matter anymore.” He shakes his head, and you understand that's all he's going to say about it for now. The desperate urge to know more about him wells up inside you, but you squash it. Undeserving. You wouldn't open up to you either. “Could you please sit on the bed? We're going home. Don't jump off in the Void or anything, because I REALLY will not be able to find you.”

“You're taking the bed? Will you be okay?” You weren't entirely sure of the span of his magic, but moving a human, a bed, and himself a fuckton of miles seemed exhausting.

“I got this.” His grin isn't very convincing, but you go against your better judgment and plop down like he asked you.

It's easier to handle when you know what you're up against. The screeching is bearable, if only for the fact you knew it would end in a second. You stayed firmly on the bed in the Void, no matter how much every fiber of your being wanted you to nosedive into the endless darkness.

And then the terrible noise, and then home. Specifically, inside Papyrus's room. The bed had landed right by the one Paps was currently in, though he didn't seem to have awakened.

Sans is swaying slightly by the head of the bed, and you feel concern for him growing within you. “You good?”

“Yea m'fine.” He replies, before demonstrating that he was actually the exact opposite of that by bee lining for the floor. You lunge out of the bed, your hand just barely managing to catch his skull before it cracks open on the ground.

“Fuck.” You whisper at his unconscious face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI GUYS. So while writing this chapter, I thought about how I never explained this; the reviews you all post really do encourage me to write because I don't let myself read them until I've written some of the next chapter. And let me tell you, I love reading the reviews. its like the best reward ever. Thats why I'm so sporadic in replying to you guys though, I hope you don't mind.  
> This chapter title translates into 'the call of the void' which seems pretty fitting to me. The phrase technically means the urge to jump off of high places, but hey, it works. I also don't speak french at all, so if I got something wrong, please tell me.   
> Any criticism you have is greatly appreciated! One of my favorite serial reviewers pointed out that as cool as 'quiddity' is, it doesn't really mesh with the personality of reader, and I really appreciate stuff like that! I had a pretty weak justification for doing that in my head, and it made me realize it didn't really hold up. So criticism! Please! It will make a better story for you and help me write better.  
> Also, any thoughts on the speed that their relationship is progressing would be very helpful!  
> You guys are wonderful, I hope you all have a lovely day.


	12. That One Time Sans Got Turned On Cause You Exploded His Brother (its better than it sounds)

At this point, it's five in the morning after simultaneously one of the best and most stressful nights of your life and the skeleton that had made it all possible was unconscious (But alive, his soul hadn't shattered.) in your arms, and it was _too much_ to deal with, especially when you'd never brushed up on monster healthcare (kinda stupid, that, considering you lived with two of them, one of which seemed stupidly accident prone while also being the easiest to kill thing in existence.)

So you do the only thing you even see as an option, which is very carefully move Sans to the unoccupied race car bed and wake Papyrus up. Sans proves as easy to move now as he was when you'd first met him, so you get him on the bed with almost no trouble. After a second of deliberation, you go ahead and tuck him in, because you were incredibly soft (And totally not a necrophiliac) at heart. While the first part of your plan goes off without a hitch, the second proves to be monumentally easier said than done. After very ungracefully shoving yourself in the small amount of space between beds, you start what proves to be a very long and unrewarding process. You start by calling Papyrus's name repeatedly, then move on to poking and prodding anywhere you feel comfortable; this includes but is not limited to the entirety of his left arm, both his cheeks (Repeatedly), the bottom of his feet, and as a last resort, the eyelids that skeletons apparently have. He doesn't stir. He very literally does not move an inch as you attempt to wake him, gradually raising your voice until you felt uncomfortable going any higher.

Sans, when you turn to look at him, is still dead to the world, but his chest is rising and falling steadily which is... Good? Probably? You weren't entirely sure how breathing came into play when you were a skeleton, but you figured if he was still doing it that meant something was going right. After a brief second of skepticism you turn to see that Papyrus's chest (Ribcage?) is rising and falling as well, which was a good sign. Probably. It was all theory you were thinking up at five in the morning, which really killed the legitimacy of any conclusions you wrought.

You halt your movements, standing between two beds, thinking of your options. You could, technically, pull his soul out and check his stats. While you were almost sure that all that had caused this was magic exhaustion (You had asked him if he could do it, and he had said yes!) it would put your mind at ease. And his grip on it was wavering, you could tell from the small smattering of his aura you could feel every now and then. But he hadn't lost all his hold on it, like the first night when it had been so exposed. That meant he was doing better than then. Right? Right. So you didn't need to, and you wouldn't. You were almost sure Sans would've disapproved anyway, even if you were doing it for his own good. You knew in his place, you'd vehemently oppose any peeking at your soul, so you should grant him the same courtesy.

Still, he had a measly one HP. He was so fragile – what if he died after you'd deemed it all okay? The sun was ever-so-slowly illuminating the room, adding a sinking sense of stasis you knew would always, inevitably, result in failure.

So you decided, broke the stasis, and stole a blanket and pillow from the overabundance that now adorned Papyrus's bed. You curled up in the corner, content in the knowledge that if Sans got any worse, his beautiful, uncovered soul would wake you.

And you let yourself be comforted by the simple fact that souls, as a general rule, were beautiful. You didn't have to feel the slightest bit like a dirty necrophiliac for that thought, and maybe you could even allow yourself the thought that when you had seen his soul the first day you had thought it exceptional then, too, even before the grosser part of your mind had manifested.

 

* * *

 

You woke to screaming.

 

It had been a long time since you woke to screaming.

 

You were instantly up, the deadly curl of your magic only serving to raise your adrenaline further as it spread in wisps around your body. It took a second of wild eyed searching for you to realize there was no threat (You'd never consciously decided, but it seemed the more visceral parts of your brain accepted the skelebros as nonthreatening) and the screaming was actually some kind of happy keening noise exiting who else but Papyrus's mouth.

Still, even if it was technically a happy noise, being woken up by it was jarring to your exhausted mind. You try to calm yourself down and eventually succeed, magic returning ever so slowly to it's rightful place. Papyrus is still past hysterics into some emotional realm only known to the Papyrus's of the world, though he seems happy enough, even if he is clutching Sans's unconscious body like it was going out of style.

“Uh?” You propose, the slightest bit scared of drawing this hyped up Papyrus's attention to you.

“OH HUMAN, HUMAN!” He starts out dramatically, because with Papyrus emotions were never subdued. “DID SANS DO THIS? HE DID THIS, DIDN'T HE. I TOLD HIM HE DIDN'T NEED TO BUT HE DID, OH, I COULDN'T ASK FOR A BETTER BROTHER.”

“Well, he uh, did get the bed from your guys' old house if that's what you're talking about.” You try to stay level headed, but you were almost sure you got less than an hour of sleep and your previously acquired adrenaline was draining out of you like the sluggish dribble of saliva from a dead bo-

 

Bad analogy, bad memories.

 

Luckily, if anything can break you out of painful flashbacks, it's Papyrus's voice. “YES YES YES THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! I'VE MISSED THIS BED SO MUCH, HE'S NEVER DEEMED ANYWHERE 'STABLE' ENOUGH TO WARRANT MOVING IT THERE.”

So your house was stable? That was.. Nice. To hear. You ignore the old guilt from hanging the threat of being kicked out over his head and try to focus on the warmth from Papyrus's words; but there is a very prevalent problem in this situation, and you know you need to address it before you return to the depths of slumber.

“So, Paps. Uh, you see, your brother passed out almost as soon as we came back? Do you know if he'll be okay?”

“HE WILL BE PERFECTLY FINE, DO NOT BE ALARMED. HE JUST OVERUSED HIS MAGIC, HE USED TO DO IT ALL THE TIME.”

Something about those words doesn't sit right in your stomach, but that could also be from the fact it felt like your stomach wasn't fitting right in your body, and your body wasn't fitting right in this room.

You decide sleep will fix this, which it probably will. Sleep and alcohol were really your cure-all’s, but the fact your stomach attempted a revolt at the mere thought of alcohol, it was obvious who'd be your savior this morning.

“Hey Paps, I didn't get much sleep, so I'm gonna go to bed. Make sure he doesn't... uh, get worse?” You had to stop yourself from saying 'die' and it was a slimy feeling that it was as much for yourself as Papyrus. Papyrus squeals an affirmative, or at least you think it's an affirmative, and you take that as your cue to leave.

You shake off any feelings even slightly related to anything, relinquish any remaining worry over Sans to the fact Papyrus probably knew way better how to take care of him than you, and crawled into cold covers with a carefully blank mind.

You dreamed that blue was your favorite color, that you had to paint landscapes and skies and animals this color so that maybe one day you'd be at peace. But there was never peace and you never stopped, and eventually the whole world was blue and you were too.

_...da ba dee da ba die..._

 

* * *

 

You woke up with a vaguely familiar and wholeheartedly annoying tune stuck in your head.

 

Wonderful.

 

When you finally make it to the kitchen, after a convoluted bathroom-room-bathroom jaunt, there's breakfast waiting for you, which actually is wonderful. Getting a live-in cook was definitely the best choice you'd ever made.

Papyrus is nowhere to be seen, though the food is still warm, so he couldn't have gone far. Sans also seemed to be somewhere else, but the solitude was a nice time to fully lay rest to all the weird (And sometimes necrophilia related?) emotions that had been thrown at you last night. You always got caught up on worry for Sans though, and you accepted the fact you wouldn't be able to make peace wit that until you saw him conscious.

With this is mind, you start the search for him. This search proves fruitful very easily, both brothers are on the couch watching Youtube while the kittens make use of their new toy. Papyrus occasionally glances over, wide eyes filled to the brim with adoration. You second his feelings, seeing the kittens enjoying what you had gotten them fills you with joy.

Though seeing Sans both awake and alive fills you with relief.

 

Just relief.

 

No other emotions at all.

You go ahead and sit by them, wasting away a few hours on mind numbing videos they search up. It was easy to just sit and stare at a screen, but eventually Papyrus was bound to get antsy and you would too, albeit much later.

When the inevitable comes, you and Papyrus go outside for a spar, an activity you'd become enamored with since the first time. It had been years since you'd had anyone even near your level to fight, and astounding only yourself with feats of magic had gotten lonely, after a while.

It was a hard lesson when you'd realized your magic was more likely to terrify than awe any of the humans you'd made acquaintance with, but you were a quick learner and hadn't made that mistake again.

Still, that had left the entirety of people that could appreciate your magic to you, and you alone, so it had been long years of only using magic when prudent, or for brief entertainment.

 

Long years that were over now. The thought made a smile stretch your face, though it doesn't last long since Papyrus is on the offensive.

A rain of bones fall around you, and you only have a second to lament as one shears off a sizable chunk of your hair before Papyrus is falling upon you too. He's in the swan dive position, heading towards you fast with twin bones pointed in the general direction of your heart. You shoot him a cheeky grin before scooping up some bitterly cold snow into your bare hand, throwing the loose ball into his face with dead accuracy. While he's otherwise occupied, you slip under where he would land, letting him sail uselessly above you.

Before he touches down, you channel magic into your feet, gluing you to the ground, then wrap one reinforced hand around a freakishly skinny ankle. You allow your body to bend backwards, going with his momentum, until you spring back up like some kind of horribly inhumane catapult.

You grin at the sight of him flying away, though you don't waste long. Oscillating magic you drain into your legs reinforces them, helping shoot you twenty feet in the air above where Papyrus had skidded to a landing. He's eying you though, and it's obvious he won't be taken by surprise. That's okay, brute force was always your choice of problem-solving. You dip in the air, using physical waves of magic to direct yourself into a swan dive that mimicked his earlier one straight at him. He conjures up a bone spear, pointing it directly at you as you gain momentum towards him. For a second you think of just letting yourself be impaled so you could slide down the bone and gain an advantage, but considering the point of this wasn't scarring Papyrus (And your abdomen) forever, you refrain.

Instead, you level your hands in front of you, drawing up enough magic for a thick plate of it to rest against your open palms. You continue hurtling to Papyrus, the slight shimmer in front of your body the only indication that you weren't going to headbutt the business end of a spear.

The entirety of your being shudders when your shield of magic hits bone, clacking your teeth together painfully. Deep ruts in the snow reveal Papyrus had a similar problem, but he's holding firm against your onslaught. Slowly, gravity starts to tug you down, and you know you can't keep up this stand off for much longer.

Quick thinking leads you to disintegrating the magic in front of your hands, then grabbing Papyrus's weapon. He seemed ready for it, sending a shock of magic through the bone. It singes your hands, the entirely weird and slightly delicious smell of burning flesh assaulting your nose even as you swing off the painful bone, feet first towards Papyrus.

He bats your legs away, though he was obviously surprised as you were still close enough afterward to grab his knee as you flew past. He goes down hard, and you scramble to press the advantage, though he meets you before you can pin him.

Both your burned hands lock with his, you choke back a pained gasp as he presses against the damaged skin. You press back despite the discomfort, and it becomes a weird pushy-hands scuffle. You pump magic into your arms, upping your strength by leaps and bounds, though it seems Papyrus is enormously stronger than you had thought, and your hands are screaming in protest. He was slowly pushing you down onto your back, so you knew you had to switch tactics. You start trying to heal your hands, wincing at the uncomfortable feeling of your skin being reconnected against the rough gloves Papyrus had on.

“NYEH HEH HEH! HUMAN, ARE YOU READY TO FINALLY ADMIT DEFEAT?” Papyrus never ceases to surprise you with random appearances of his voice, though this time the consequences proved to be more than an elevated heart rate. Healing took extravagant amounts of precision, and it seemed that just wasn't something you could do when scared; the magic spazzed as your elevated emotions accidentally sent unholy amounts of magic into your hands, much more than you had wanted. The sharp pain coupling with a scent you'd had more than your fill of in the last twenty minutes confirmed that you'd only fried your hands more, though that was secondary to the whiplash you could feel yourself getting as you were thrown backwards. Snow shoved it's way into your shirt as you skidded on the ground, some winding it's way into your pants as well. When you finally halted, your entire back was raw and you were colder than you necessarily wanted to be, though none of that mattered.

What mattered is you'd just exploded Papyrus. You'd exploded him with magic in a wavelength meant to heal, but it was still massive amounts of energy and force and you'd never tried to heal anyone else, so it was a _big_ problem.

“PAPS!” Your voice is high-pitched, panicky. You flail, then squeak with pain as one of your hands comes down hard on the snow. You still for just a second, then push through it when all that answers your desperate scream was silence. When your hand comes away, there's a vibrant hand print left, the glittering red beautiful to your eyes.

You turn away and resist the urge to look at your hand, knowing that whatever resided there would be horrible, and you couldn't handle that and the fact you'd probably injured Papyrus at once. Luckily, Paps had an assortment of bright colors on him, making him easy to spot. His feet, at least, because his head was hidden under a pile of snow that seemed to exist only because he skidded so far.

“Paps!” You call again as you start running over, panic draining magic into your legs until everything was a blur. He was uncomfortably far away, beyond a crater left in the snow where intensely bright grass had been uncovered. You could only assume it was made from your slip in control, and you cursed as you flew around it, super powered legs threatening to give out even as magic poured in to reinforce them.

“Hey, hey, you're okay, I'm here you're going to be fine don't worry don't worry don'tworrydon'tworry!” You mumbled at his body when you reached him, shoving snow off his face. It all came away red, but the cold numbed you to a level of pain you could ignore.

When you have gotten the majority of the snow off of him, you grab his shoulders, hissing out an apology to his newly bloodied battle body. He comes to as you start grabbing at him, trying to get him into a manageable position to be carried inside.

“HUMAN! WHAT ARE YOU CURRENTLY ATTEMPTING?”

The loud voice reverberates with your panic, causing you to loosen your grasp. This throws you into more of a frenzy, you re-grab his shoulders too-tight, causing a squeal of pain to escape your mouth.

“HUMAN!” He sounds panicked now too, his loud voice warbling with concern. You try to very gently set him on the ground, and for the most part, you succeed.

You attempt to angle your palms away from him, though it doesn't seem to work. “HUMAN?! WHAT HAVE I DONE?” You can already see the glittering tears pooling in his eyes.

You can't just leave him like that, so even as you're pumping healing magic to your palms you set about explaining. “Don't worry, it was my fault.” A particularly deep cavern in your hand makes you stop for a second as you stitch together the muscles, trying to keep the patchwork of veins a close to the original formatting as possible. “I lost control of my magic for a second. Are you – are you okay?”

“I FEEL GREAT, LIKE MY NAME WOULD SUGGEST!” You breathe out a sigh of relief, swaying a bit as adrenaline leave your body.

“Good... Good...” You respond, pushing more magic into your hands. You still hadn't looked at them, but you could tell you had done some fucky stuff to them based on the information you were being relayed.

“WOWIE HUMAN, YOU ARE QUITE ADEPT AT HEALING!” Papyrus is staring at your hands as the flesh is repaired, and you try to smile at him, it probably comes out a lot worse than intended. It wasn't your fault that the adrenaline that had been guiding you through this was draining quick, leaving you with no balance and black spots in your vision.

Still, you pump your magic into your hands, even as the amount you could grasp slowly drained to a trickle.

Papyrus might've said something, and you might've replied, but maybe you didn't because then darkness was all you knew.

 

* * *

 

When you slept, you looked small. Peaceful. Something like art, all the right angles to evoke feelings. Proportions pleasing to the eye. 

Your lovely eyelashes fluttered before resting back against your cheekbones (He was slowly realizing he liked them much more when they were all bunched up from your smiles), your chest rose and fell gently, and he couldn't imagine you ever causing a massive explosion like the one earlier.

He couldn't imagine anyone doing that, actually. Much less with healing magic, of all things. The hardest to control, the most draining, and you'd _exploded_ your backyard with it.

If all mages were like you... Well, he had to wonder how monsters had lasted as long as they had in the first war. Why they had even tried, when they were up against powerhouses like you.

You had so _much_ magic it made his bones ache, and remembering the way you had flown to Papyrus's side did the same to his soul.

You obviously cared about Paps, but he could imagine being on the opposite side of a battlefield from you, how worthless he would be. And he had to wonder if that was what you were trained for, because it was becoming more and more obvious that _someone_ had molded you into what you were. This wasn't talent and time, it was tutelage and terrifying amounts of power.

But you guarded your secrets like a dragon it's jewels, and as much as he envied you, he didn't wish to be your enemy. It would be such a worthless prospect he didn't even want to think about it. You could rip him apart limb from limb before he even got a single hit in. You could bully and bash him and he'd be powerless against your onslaught; that simple truth burned in his stomach like the alcohol the both of you loved.

But he knew you wouldn't. You were gentle when you touched him and kind when you spoke to him, and he had seen the way your blood boiled when someone so much as looked at him wrong. It dulled the burn to a slow warmth, wine instead of tequila.

He knew you'd never pin him under you, and bite and lick and _take._

That didn't mean he didn't want you to.

He very violently shook his head after that thought, and left quickly, careful to take the vodka bottle he'd been nursing with him. After all, the only way to get rid of unwanted alcoholic thoughts was to drown them, wasn't it?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! This chapter came out a bit later than I generally let them, but lemme tell you, this past week has been crazy. I got to see one of my favorite bands, Brand New, in Berkeley! Sadly, I was the driver so I was up to unholy hours trying to safely navigate me and a cutie home, and there was a dog in the middle of this 5-lane freeway at one point and I woke her up by swerving and screaming and it wasn't good. And I accidentally went to San Francisco which also wasn't good cause fuck driving in San Francisco. And then I went on what some call the hardest hike in our town the next day, got tipsy before the hike back up, got drunk and house hopped to like 3 friends places that night, got very sad the next day, then went to my least favorite persons house, got drunk, walked to my favorite persons house, got more drunk, then did another hike the next day.  
> And now I'm here.  
> Also this chapter was really hard and I don't like it and???? But we're getting close to romance which means we're getting closer to plot!


	13. Warning: Do Not Goad The Mage (unless you're Sans in which case it's hot)

You slept for two days. The remaining days until New Years passed by uneventfully, or at least as uneventful as your life got with the skelebros and kittens at your house. You had assumed that Sans and Papyrus had never seen fireworks, so you took it upon yourself to drive them to what was going to be the most impressive show in your area. Papyrus had prepared a picnic after repeatedly googling 'picnic spaghetti' and coming up mostly disappointed, which meant there were only two tupperware containers of the favorite dish of Papyrus, 'Spaghettore Extraordinaire'. This was perfectly fine with you, the ham sandwich you were biting into was much more pleasing to your taste buds. The blanket you had set out was soft, large, and it had been enough of a drive that your new location wasn't covered completely in snow, so it was mostly dry as well.

You hadn't told them about what you would be seeing, though you were almost sure Sans had used the vast knowledge of the internet to learn what was traditional anyways. That was fine, if he wanted to ruin his own surprise, he could. Hmph.

Your snooty thoughts are shut right up as a firework is shot, the tinny whistling noise easily recognizable. Papyrus squeals as it erupts, and immediately bursts into an onslaught of words. “WAS THAT THE SURPRISE? OH MY GOD, THAT WAS IT, WASN'T IT? THAT WAS SO BEAUTIFUL, WAS IT MAGIC? IT WAS TOTALLY MAGIC. WHY DON'T WE USE OUR MAGIC LIKE THAT??”

“It wasn't magic Paps, it's chemicals and gunpowder.” You reply through a smile, though you're almost entirely sure he doesn't hear you as the next one explodes. The vibrant colors overtake the scenery, entrancing you in rainbows of glittering dust. A particularly blue one bursts into smaller flares, reminding you how nice Sans's face had looked with the ambient lighting of Waterfall, and you turn to see the next one illuminate his face without consciously deciding.

You find his pinprick pupils staring right back at you as a green one explodes, drawing deep shadows across his face. You quickly turn away, hoping he'd ignore your slip-up, as Papyrus OOH's and AHH's in _all_ the places. It seems luck wasn't on your side as he sidles up to you, leaning close enough that your heart does an uneasy backflip. “Wanna see something cool?” Afraid words would fail you, you just nod, but he understands. “Watch this.” His breath is warm at your ear, and you find you can't remember exactly when you started holding yours. He reaches his left arm out in front of you, and you detect a small 'hff' of strain as the next firework explodes. This one, unlike the others, forms an image instead of the oblong circles that had been lighting the sky.

You let out a small giggle as a violet hotdog shines down on you before fading into oblivion.

 

“SANS!” An annoyed voice comes from behind you, the pitch leaving no mystery as to who it was.

“What, bro?” The skeleton by your side replies.

“DO NOT DESECRATE THE FLASHY PRETTY THINGS WITH YOUR GREASY UNHEALTHY THINGS!” Papyrus sounds horribly put out, though you can't understand what he has against hotdogs.

“'Kay bro.” Is his easy reply, tossed over his shoulder like he'd done it all before. He then shifts his head closer to yours, and murmurs in your ear, “Want me to do it again?” You, again, nod silently; the fabric of his hoodie brushes your face and you still immediately, fighting the red blooming on your cheeks. The next firework forms a whiskered kitten face, smiling down at you and the skelebros. Papyrus lets out a squeal and refrains from scolding Sans this time, and even you are awed by this performance.

“How... How do you do that?”

“Blue magic has a lot of _interesting_ qualities.” You're sure you imagine the way his voice goes husky at 'interesting', but it still makes all your tiny neck hairs stand on end. The fireworks show goes on like that, Sans sitting close enough to make your stomach flip and your hands curl, reaching out every now and again to make glittering pictures. They were beautiful and he was beautiful and you weren't really sure how well squashing the necrophiliac voice in your head was going since that seemed to be your entire head now.

When it ends, it is far past Papyrus's bedtime, something he _very_ audibly laments. Sans offers to teleport him home, and Papyrus is still considering when Sans decides for him. “I'll get you to bed Bro, okay? I'll even come back and copilot for the drive home so our darling tomato won't have to be alone.”

You can feel yourself living up to that namesake even as you try to argue. “Hey! I know the way, I can just drive by myself. It's not a problem.”

“Nahh, I'll be back. Wait for me, kay?” And then him and Papyrus are gone, and you're left to wonder why you can't hear the awful screaming of the world being torn apart when you were right by it.

You pout and get in your car, briefly contemplating just leaving. You immediately disregard that as an option, because you were entirely sure he'd manage to overexert himself, _again,_ if he had to teleport back home _._ And that was a problem. You had recently discovered an unconscious Sans was not a good Sans (Which did not make for a good you [you really should work on this weird emotional dependency on Sans's well being]), though he didn't seem to share the sentiment. You sigh and press your face against the steering wheel in the hopes of cooling it off. He probably knew you'd stay here for the exact reason of making sure he didn't hurt himself. The conniving bastard.

He's back before you can mentally desecrate him further, so you glare at him as he enters the car. “Heh, glad you're here. Probably couldn't a made it home.”

The easy declaration that he'd been endangering himself makes your magic boil. “You shouldn't chance something like that!” You growl at him; he stops in the middle of buckling up.

“No worries, it was never a chance with you.” He sounds so matter-of-fact it takes everything in you to not start screaming.

“Your life isn't something to gamble on! It was a chance, and if I left, you could've _died_. You did the same shit when we went underground, stop taking all these chances!” You're hissing through gritted teeth at his face by the end, leaning over the middle console, though you had no idea how you'd gotten there.

“They're really more 'calculated risks' than 'chances.” He provides, his hand coming up to tug his hoodie around his face.

“No!” You snarl, tugging his hand away from his face and pinning it against the head rest. “Do _not_ calculate the probability of your death! Do not risk your life! STOP HURTING YOURSELF!” You can feel your magic crackling around you in response to your agitation, but you know it won't hurt Sans. If you were a necrophiliac, your magic was a grave-robber with an undead harem, and it would not touch him.

Sans is staring at you, his pinpricks blown wide, sharp gasps exiting a mouth parted enough to display his fangs. The hand you have pinned twitches just a bit before a feral grin streaks across his face. “Heh, I don't see why you control what I do to myself.”

Rage floods your brain, though it's a testament to how truly your magic likes him that all it does is boost you over the middles console so you're crouching on him. You grab his other hand, which had come up in surprise at your sudden movement, and pin it lower than the one smashed against the headrest. You try to really get your point across, leaning in so close you'd be worried about the state of your breath in any other circumstances. “I _control_ what you do to yourself because you're _**mine.”**_ The word 'mine' seems to echo around the both of you, and the little breathy sound he makes almost distracts you from your tirade, but you compose and continue, desperate to stop him from being a stupid little shit, “That means the only one who can hurt you is _**me**_ , and if anyone else does, even yourself, I get very, _very_ **angry.** **”**

Sans gasped for air as you finished your tirade, leaning in so close to his face that if he had more alcohol in his system he might've possibly kissed you. It felt _too_ good, being pinned by you in your darkened car, your magic crackling and illuminating your pretty, pretty eyes. He almost wanted to goad you more, see how riled he could get you, but he was already struggling to keep his magic from forming the stupid magic ecto-dick it was so fond of, and he had the strangest feeling having something hard poke you wasn't exactly the intended reaction right now.

So he went for the one thing that had never failed him: puns. “I didn't realize this would cause such _risk_ -qué behavior.” He added a wink for good measure, and took great pleasure in watching the eyes he seemed to be so enamored with slowly sweep down your entangled forms. Red blossomed in your cheeks, and he decided to press the advantage. “Are you _trying_ to _toma_ turn-me-on?”

You squeal, eyes wide, and scramble back to the driver's seat, providing an honestly astounding view of your butt. “That was stupid.” You provide after settling a comfortable distance away from him. “You knew what I was doing.” You slice him with a glare, and he involuntarily shivers. “And I certainly hope you take it to heart, or the consequences will be **dire**.” You seem to contemplate something for a second before turning to him. “ _Berry_ dire.”

He blinks slowly, before a chuckle finds it's way out of his mouth. “That was good.” He compliments. As much as being pressed up on by you was wonderful, he appreciated the lightened mood. It was too much to even hope for, but he found himself wishing the two could be combined, someday.

“I'm still serious though. Stop with the life risking business, that's not the shit.” You say while starting the car, but your tone still carries the good humor it had when you laid a pun on him.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” You send him another glare, and he sheepishly replies with a smile.

After a second of driving, you break the silence, much to his relief. “So why tomato? I thought you'd decided on cherry.” He's pleased to see in the glow of a streetlight that you're living up to the nickname, most likely due to the fact you were acknowledging it.

“Well, since tomatoes turned out to be fruit – I looked that up by the way, and I still don't want to accept it – I figured I might as well go with that since they make ketchup, which is kinda my favorite.” He explains, then immediately regrets it. Too open, too embarrassing.

“Well that's.. That's sweet. Thanks, Blueberry.” Your eyes are trained on the road, but he can see the curve of a smile bunching up your cheek, just the way he likes.

“Okay yeah that's nice and all but you should totally never call me Blueberry again.” Even as he protests, he can feel his magic rushing to his face, making it live up to his namesake.

“Hey, I'm not giving you nickname privileges without reciprocation.” You distract yourself from the road for a second to stick your tongue out at him, and he has time to acknowledge the pink of it was pretty cute.

“You started it!” He responds just like every elementary school child ever.

“I was drunk.” You respond like every college student ever.

“That doesn't excuse it!”

“Well, I beg to differ, Blueberry.” The heat in his cheeks only intensifies, though it's nice to see your red flush hasn't gone away. A second of studying you makes him think on how nice your face looks when it was flushed, all pretty in pink, which leads to an uncomfortable notion that his flushes were almost the exact opposite color of yours, and any other humans, for that matter. Red meant life and passion and beautiful things, fierce emotions and all the mushy matter that supported your lovely body. Blue meant sickness and drowning and death; cold instead of warm, numb and depressed and anything at all but passionate.

He looked away from you, cursing his stupid magic and the stupid not-even-a-full-body it resided in with his whole heart.

“Hey, what's up?” You break into his melancholy thoughts, the slightest edge of concern marring your voice. It soothed him, made him inordinately happy you cared, and that only made him sadder.

“S'nothing, no worries.” He replies, trying to shake away any possibility of being attracted the slightest bit to you, as much for his own sanity than for anything else. You turn towards him and bite your lip – and _oh no_ not the lip bite, - looking deeper into him than he could ever feel comfortable with. “I'm jus'...” Your eyes flash like the sweetest lightning and he realizes he wasn't exactly sure what he had been trying to say. At the continuation of your concerned gaze, he tries for the most universal cop-out imaginable, “Jus' tired. Long day.”

A menacing noise draws up from your clavicle, but it doesn't pitch higher than a particularly upset purr. He tries to not think about earlier, you on top of him and the way your eyes flashed and _oh_ he could've ground up just the slightest bit and it would've been so good, would've been so - “Maybe, if _someone_ wasn't stupidly negligent of their own health, they wouldn't be so _exhausted._ ” You bite off your words, but he doesn't detect any malicious intent behind them. Try as he might, Sans couldn't think up a good pun to retort with, and the silence stretches on. “Hey, look.” You start after a few more minutes than he was really comfortable with. “I'm sorry I got all intimidating earlier, I, uh, really would rather you not be scared of me. You just – I just... I worry about you and it seems like you don't worry about yourself and I'm not... very sure how to deal with problems besides intimidation tactics and violence. But I would never hurt you. I don't think I physically _could_ hurt you.”

Something in him chokes up, and he tries a few deep breaths before even contemplating answering you. “S'not a big deal... I, uh, kinda deserved it. Wouldn't exactly mind if you did it again.” He bites down on his lip, hard, after that. He wasn't extremely in tune with human customs, but it didn't seem like _wanting_ to be dominated was exactly.. Socially acceptable? And even if you were the only one he wanted on top of him (Which definitely didn't mean he was romantically attracted to you, you were just the only one he was close to who wasn't his brother. That was all. And even slightly tolerating thoughts like that was setting himself up for painful failure), you were also the only one he didn't want disgusted by him (Papyrus didn't count, for the sole reason he didn't think he could disgust Papyrus if he _tried._ His bro was just that good.).

“Hmm.” Your voice was low, and he thought he could even _hear_ the smirk in it. “I'll keep that in mind.” He shivered in a way that electrified his bones.

The road thrummed under the two of you, a soothing rhythm he could feel lulling him even as thoughts replayed earlier again and again and again, exciting him past reason.

You seem to notice he's nodding off, and in a voice he could easily see himself falling asleep to, you hum, “You can go to sleep if you want. I don't mind.”

He takes that idea and runs with it, and even as he replies he can feel himself slipping away. “Heh, thanks.”

Darkness is soft, comforting and sweet, and somehow Sans feels like he will finally get good sleep.

 

He's wrong, but that's nothing new.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sad always but sub Sans convinces me to live so theres that.  
> Are there people who're just naturally happy? cause thats totally unfair  
> Also shoutout to my pets cause if I died theyw ouldn't understand where I went and they'd be sad  
> Also shoutout to everyone who's reviewed this fic, you guys help make this shit life into like shit with sparkles on it 10/10  
> [Also super awesome shout out to Upbeatbox for this fanart I appreciate it very much you light up my world](http://66.media.tumblr.com/40b99702ea894446407e2734c82a7de3/tumblr_oaf58v0SiN1qcdcpho1_1280.jpg)


	14. I Have The Strangest Feeling Half My Life Can Be Explained By 'Emotional Constipation'

Sans falls asleep quicker than you think is strictly fair, but his peaceful face manages to convince you otherwise. You spend the rest of the drive trying to maneuver the car as smoothly as possible to ensure his continued rest. It works, Sans doesn't stir a bit; instead, he slowly curls in on himself in the passenger seat, and the choking feeling in your chest at the perfect picture he makes is more than a little damning. Every time a streetlight illuminates his form, you can't help but smile at his peaceful face; the way he clutches at his jacket with loosely curled fists. It was really unfair, honestly. He was pretty much the undead version of jailbait. Necrobait.

By the time you get home, he's in a small ball against the car door, and you can't find it in yourself to wake him up. It wasn't like you hadn't carried him places before, in fact, he was so light you think you could carry him everywhere.

Not that he would allow it, but you know. You could, physically. And you wouldn't particularly mind, either.

Opening the door without him being strangled by the seat belt proves to be a task all by itself, one that took longer than you would've liked and the uncomfortable duty of sticking your arm into the tiny crack between the door and body of the car. Eventually, after much muted cussing, you have him propped up in one arm as you unbuckle the harness.

When you lift him into your arms, he immediately grasps onto the hoodie you're wearing; his small hands look even smaller bunched up in all the fabric. You try to not let yourself get warm fuzzy feelings, but of course, you get them anyways. Carrying him in might not have been the best option in terms of keeping your necrophilia at bay. That thought is reinforced when, on your way to the house, a particularly cold breeze sweeps past you, causing him to nuzzle into your body for warmth. You go completely still for a second, fighting down what can only be pure adoration at such a trusting and innocent gesture, before continuing towards the house at double-speed.

Do not be attracted to a skeleton. Do not, in any way, be attracted to a skeleton. _Especially_ not this skeleton.

He grasps your hoodie tighter for a second as you fumble with the door, and lets out a snuffling noise that you swear was only cute because it reminded you of puppies and you like puppies, and you do not, in any way, shape, or form, like this skeleton.

There's just so much wrong with it. If you ever tried to act on your (non-existent) affections, he might think you'd changed your mind on letting him stay without the original deal. And you knew now that forcing him into anything would probably make your magic murder you, not that you would object at that point.

And you'd also have to admit you were attracted to a skeleton, not just the thought he could make a dick to your preferences whenever and never ever make you pregnant; you'd have to come to terms with the fact you were attracted to literally an animated corpse. A science room prop. Something without skin or lips or anything else that was conventionally attractive.

And did skeletons even have romantic feelings towards others? They might reproduce asexually and stay alone their entire lives. Or maybe they had some weird mating ritual that would turn you into a skeleton. Yeah, no. Not worth.

Were interspecies relationships even legal? Necrophilia sure wasn't, and bestiality sure as hell wasn't either. It was probably totally morally wrong too, for reasons that were just escaping you at this moment.

Plus, even if none of those things were issues, you were entirely sure you wouldn't be good for him. You'd already cause more havoc in his life than he deserved, and you were nowhere near done atoning for it. You were impulsive and violent and uncontrollable, and he was so _small_. He'd be so easy to crush, and even today you'd proved you weren't worthy, pinning him down and threatening him like some kind of beast. You were corrupted, plain and simple. Your soul was dark and twisted, ugly in all the ways that mattered, and therefore, the rest of you was too. And his soul was _so_ bright, _so_ pure, even littered with cracks. He was so... _good._ He deserved someone great, and you were the antonym of great.

 

He was too good for you, plain and simple. And you were okay with that.

 

You didn't think you could be anything like what he needed, and you doubted you were what he wanted either.

And you had almost no experience in the whole 'romance' department, considering you had turned tail and ran the second any friend with benefits had even hinted at feeling something more. You didn't know how to be sweet and passionate, you couldn't give him these weird fuzzy feelings he kept imposing on you.

 

And that was okay, you reiterated while you climbed the stairs. It really, really was.

 

What you had going on was fine. Great, even. You liked his company and your magic certainly did too, and you wouldn't ruin any of it for feelings that you weren't even going to accept.

He made a small, content noise as you walked to his room, and you ignored the pang of emotion it gave you, because it was okay.

 

It was okay.

 

Maybe you could just gain a little distance, put some barriers between the two of you, and wait it out. This stupid twist of fate would run it's course, and you wouldn't mess him up, you wouldn't mess your relationship up, you wouldn't mess with any morals or laws or anything and it would be perfect. You probably didn't even like him, you were just being emotionally confused, as always. Random people moving in after a decade or so of isolation was... jarring. That was all.

It's easier to not think about it as you try to get him to bed. His room is dark, but easy to navigate anyways. He'd never gotten much stuff to furnish it, and what he did have was stupid clutter like extra sheets balled up on the floor and other evidence he was a slob at heart.

 

It was kind of endearing.

 

You place him gently on the bed, slowly untangling his hands from your being. He seems to have other ideas, grasping tight and whispering small, indecipherable words as you tried to leave. His sleep-riddled form was nothing compared to your conscious one though, so after some gentle struggling he's curled on the bed, completely detached from you.

You start untying his shoes, figuring it was the least you could do, really, when he starts breathing heavily. You stop and examine him, trying to find the source of distress, but he seems to compose himself without your interference, and you accept that. You have one of his boots off when it starts up again, desperate little pants that sound sad and scared and all the things you **don't** want him to be.

“Sans?” You attempt into the dark room. He whines something that might've possibly been a word, curls in further on himself, and returns to silence. Okay then.

You get the other boot off before he starts up again, this time some words coming out clear enough you can understand, “No... Not again.. Happy here... You couldn't.” He huffs a sound not unlike a sob, and your heart breaks the smallest bit. “Couldn't understand.” He continues, sounding so desolate your magic visibly flares up.

It lights the room enough you can see his face, all twisted up against what you can only assume is a nightmare. You regain the ability to move when he actually sobs, a wet forlorn noise that resonates within your skeleton like the horrible vibration of bad music turned up too loud.

You have no experience of helping people with nightmares, but waking him up seems like the best option, so that's what you attempt.

“Sans!” You hiss, then try to school your voice into something more comforting, “Sans?” He murmurs something urgently, but the words don't reach you. You resort to trying to physically wake him up, even though you're pretty sure he won't react well to coming out of a nightmare with you grabbing all up on him.

To your surprise, when you touch his shoulder, his hand immediately comes up to cover yours. “Mhhnnmm” It's like a scream behind a closed mouth, and your magic flares again, lighting his quivering form.

“Sans!” Your voice has a panicky edge as he grabs onto your hand with his other one, too. “Hey! Wake up! It's not real, it's a dream.”

“No, no.” He whispers, face strained. “Nooooo..” It's long and keening, and his grip on your arm tightens to almost painful levels.

You grab his other shoulder and try to shake him as gently as possible, hoping fiercely it will work because you are entirely unequipped for this. “Sans! Sans, Sans, come on. It's okay, you're safe, I'm here and it's all okay.”

To your relief, his eyes open slightly, the half-lidded look ruined by tears that resided in his skull. “S-safe?” He whimpers out.

“Yeah,” You sigh out, relieved. “Yeah, safe.”

“Safe..” He repeats, and you nod in agreement, simply happy he'd regained consciousness, and with it, logic. You're about to pull away when his eyes go wide and fix on a point over your shoulder. “You're gonna leave.” He says, and well, yeah, that had been the plan. You couldn't exactly imagine him wanting you to stay while he slept, he seemed too... Private, for that. “I don't.. don't...don't...d'n't”

You were starting to question that whole 'he's conscious' thought, considering he was making no sense. “Hey, Sans? You, uh, good?”

“S'not good. Never good” He sounded despaired, and even though you had no idea if he actually knew what he was saying, it hurt. 

Comforting really wasn't your strong suit, something glaringly obvious at this exact moment; you needed professional help. By 'professional', you meant 'Papyrus', but you figured he might have some experience if this was a normal thing, and even if he didn't, Papyrus was strong and compassionate and much, _much_ better with emotions than you could ever hope to be.

“Hey, Sans, I'm gonna get your brother okay?” Your only answer is a string of small whimpers. You bite your lip and try to detach your arm from his hands, but they cling with desperation.

“Nonononooo.” He whines, “Don't leave.”

“Uhh.” Is your eloquent response to that.

“No... Alone....” He moans. You're still questioning the stupidity of staying with him while he sleeps, when he tugs pathetically on your arm, and you sigh. It wasn't like you'd feel alright leaving him when he was like this anyways, and last time you'd tried to wake up Papyrus, it hadn't ended well. “Well, fuck. You can't be mad at me for this in the morning. Scooch.”

He, of course, doesn't, being (probably?) asleep and all. This leaves you to gently push his form a bit to the side, which proves difficult when he wraps an arm around your waist as soon as your within distance. “O-oh.” You stutter out, then huff as he proves to be clingier than a koala.

You get him moved enough you can squeeze in, even with your new impairment. He's still sniffling by the time you've settled down, clinging around your middle and using one of your crossed legs as a pillow. You bite your lip nervously, still unsure of how to deal with this particular problem. A quivering hand is raised, and you hover it over his skull for a second in indecision before you start stroking it, trying to keep your movements soothing.

His sniffles almost immediately die down, and you let yourself relax. You continue your ministrations, gently scratching up and down his neck vertebrae, rubbing circles on his temples. He nuzzles into you just like outside, and you have the sinking feeling you've already failed at the whole 'distance yourself' deal.

Eventually his sobs seem to turn to something like a purr, content in it's entirety. You absently continue to stroke him as you dig out your phone, attempting to keep the jostling to a minimum; you have some googling to do.

The most prevalent of things is to learn how the fuck you deal with someone who's having a nightmare, just in case this ever happens again. The feeling of something hurting whats yours while you were so helpless was not something you were keen on reliving. This didn't exactly seem like a one-time deal, either, considering how much of his erratic sleep schedule and noticeable exhaustion could be explained by it.

You don't find much, which is irritating. A common piece of advice was to not wake them, which seemed hard and confusing, why wouldn't you try? Though it seemed Sans was at least close to the same level of intense sleeping as his brother, so it wasn't like waking him up was much of an option anyways. There were sites specifically on how to help people with PTSD related nightmares, though you had no way of knowing if a traumatic event was what these nightmares stemmed from. It seemed like it could be, considering (From what little you know) his whole life could probably be defined as a 'traumatic event'. A lot said that professional help would be good, but considering how humans as a whole treated him, you didn't think that would go over well.

You sigh and decided that maybe you and Papyrus could have a private conversation where you could see if this happened often, and if so, what you could do.

Now, onto slightly less urgent but still very pressing matters. You sigh, lament your life had come to this, and type your query into the search bar: _why is necrophilia illegal?_

You don't think you'd ever been so happy your phone had an incognito mode.

 

* * *

 

When the sun has started to come up, you'd exhausted searches on the morality and legality of necrophilia (Was 'illegal' because of consent, though in some places a dead body was not considered a living entity, so it actually wasn't illegal. Who knew.) bestiality, (Not cool, in your opinion, and also not very applicable to your situation since the problem was animals also couldn't consent and you were pretty damn sure Sans had the mental capacity to give informed consent, should he so choose.) and interspecies relationships, which had been both the most helpful and the most sparse. Turns out, there were a few people who'd already snatched up a monster to canoodle with, and at least three of them were very public about it. Their Instagrams were full of all the cute pictures that couples generally take, though a sad-flying-looking-thing, a literal green flame, and a ghost were proudly displayed instead of a second human. They all managed to take pretty cute pictures, but the comments were always a shitshow of supporters and haters duking it out.

You were just scrolling through a pretty saucy debate when Sans makes a sound not unlike a yawn, distracting you and causing you to still the hand that had been absentmindedly stroking him all night. At the discontinuation of your ministrations, he makes a confused noise, and you're struck with sudden panic at the realization he's awake.

He moves his head up to look at you far too slowly, and when his eyes meet yours they're stretched wide with panic, or fear, or a mix of the two. The scene hangs like that before a second too long, so you save it the only way you seem to know how, with situations like this. Rambling. “Hi, uh, you fell asleep on the car ride home which is totally okay and stuff, but I didn't want to wake you up?” You can feel yourself visibly cringe, but you continue anyways. “So I kinda carried you inside and uh I was trying to take off your boots, cause who sleeps with shoes on? Amiright?” His face is still frozen in a wide-eyed dumbfounded look you find horribly cute, and you're sure it's not helping your speaking abilities, but you plow on, as is custom to your life. “Anyways you started having a nightmare.” His face turns to one of pure fear then, and your heart jumps. “It was okay! It was chill. I mean, it's not chill that happened to you that's not cool at all but uh I just – you wouldn't let me leave after I only kinda succeeded in waking you up and uh. I told you then you couldn't be mad so you can't be mad sorry if I invaded your space and stuff you were just... asking me? And...” You cut yourself off there, thankfully deigning to not continue into _I probably couldn't refuse you anything_ or _you were so sad and it was making my soul ache_ or _I would've felt more like a pile of shit than I do on a daily basis if I'd left you._

He nods once, seems to gain enough brainpower to realize his arms were still wrapped around you, and springs away as fast as he had on your couch the first time he gained consciousness around you.

Ouch, that was a bad parallel.

“Uh, sorry, sorry-” He starts apologizing.

Obviously you can't have that, so you cut him off just to be cut off again. “It's okay I just-”

“Won't happen again I-” He's still looking so sad, so you have to try to help;

but your reassurance seem to do nothing. “No it's fine don-”

“It was only-”

“It wasn't a problem I, uh-” You try one last time to tell him you didn't mind. You like, did the opposite of mind.

“I'll just be goin-” It's his room, but

you take the suggestion and run with it. “Yeah! Yeah, I uh, have some stuff. To do,”

“Me too! Very important, gotta go.”

He poofs out of existence, and you all but run to your room. You try desperately to not think about him, but you do anyways. Those adorable eye sockets (Not something you'd ever thought you'd say) The cute way his blue flush had spread from his cheeks, (Again, pretty unexpected sentence as far as life went.) His contented rumble when you'd caressed him...

There was the _slightest_ possibility you liked the skeleton.

 

** Fuck. **

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, i really appreciate it, and everyone who tried to cheer me up, thank you doubly. its absolutely wonderful to know so many people care about my wellbeing and it's helped me with the life stuff happening.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all think I portrayed trying to speak with a sleeping person well! I personally don't have much experience with nightmares, but my best friend is nigh-impossible to wake up, though he'll respond to you like he's awake. He's also randomly started rapping at me while sleeping, (I say rapping cause its like loud and rhythmic talking?) saying stuff like "Malachaca Malachaca Malachaca HUP." And "Are you ready? Are you ready are you ready? Are you ready for the hackling?
> 
> I also hope readers slow acceptance of her feelings is acceptable. i know her train of thought jumps back and forth from 'i like him' to 'no i don't a lot, but in my experience thats a lot of what denial is, that and obviously stupid reasons, if you have an objective viewpoint.
> 
> Also for the dialogue at the very end I broke it up in a way that was very non-conventional, but felt more in-tune with the emotions, not very sure how well it worked
> 
> Anyways, any thoughts on these topics or any others would be lovely to hear, as always:) I hope you all have a wonderful day


	15. Papyrus, unsurprisingly, is a good life coach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATTENTION: if you want to skip smut and keep your sin count to a minimum, please skip from the first line break (After 'how can you tell if your falling in love') To the second. All you filthy sinners, please don't get too excited from this notice, it isn't anything big

Sans was equal parts horrified and confused, but he was mostly fucking freezing. The transition from the safe warmth of your arms to the insidious cold that surrounded your house was jarring, to say the least. It seemed to snow every day here, a bitter kind of glitter than suffocated everything instead of blanketing it. Sometimes he thought he hated it, and now, curled up under a tree so crooked it was liable to crush him, was definitely one of those times. It was absolutely glacial against his hands, even with thick gloves protecting them, and that was a problem because he was considering _never_ entering your home again.

Even giving the smallest thought to what had happened sent another ferocious flare of magic to his face, lighting it up in a way he _hated._ He hated that and he hated his nightmares, and he hated how your hands could be so rough against him one moment and so gentle the next, but he mostly hated that because he _loved_ it and it made his throat sore and his eyes ache and he didn't understand anything but the slow sinking feeling he was falling for you.

But he didn't even understand that, because he didn't know the slightest thing about falling in love (He had loved Papyrus the moment he'd seen him, and it was nothing like this. Not like acid eating away what was never there to start with, his empty thoracic cavity burning like a bonfire had made it's home where he should've had a heart.) or falling in lust, as it may be, because he certainly wasn't good at controlling himself when you were on him.

And it wasn't as though it mattered in the slightest what he was falling in, because you reciprocating his feelings was about on par with the plausibility of the earth being bashed to smithereens by a comet (He wasn't entirely sure whether he'd rather the comet, considering if you ever actually did like him, it would just be one more thing to lose when Frisk got bored.).

And oh, maybe you'd still be down for just sex, but he didn't think he could handle that anymore now than he could at first, and he had the slow sinking feeling that any level of attraction you might've had got fucked as he showed how inept and worthless he was. That was okay. He valued his virginity, because it was his and he'd kept it when he'd kept almost nothing else, and he wanted to give it to someone he loved anyway.

And he didn't think he loved you, not yet at least. He thought you were a match to all the stars in the sky, glittering and endlessly interesting; he thought you handled life better than he ever could, with an easy humor that swayed him like he was caught in ocean currents. He thought you were comforting and gentle and powerful beyond belief. He thought you were kind and fierce and all the things he'd ever wanted to be, and he thought he _could_ love you, and it was terrible.

It was such a futile thing to finally consider his feelings after he'd had the _audacity_ to ask you to stay with him while he embarrassed himself. After he'd shown off one of his worst parts. It was silly to think of you romantically now, because who would ever want to sleep with someone who sobbed every night?

 

It would be best to forget everything, but Sans never really did what was best.

 

This point was proven when he dove his still-burning face into the cold snow, looking for relief. For a second, it helped, then it was a stinging kind of cold and he was sure his face had not calmed down one bit. It was worth a try.

After that failed attempt, he steeled himself and teleported back into his room, which you had thankfully vacated. He had been fully prepared to poof back into his hidey-hole if you proved to still be in there, which while not exactly the _smoothest_ action, was the only one he felt would really work. He immediately closed his door, locked it, and leaned against it for a second, enjoying your house's relative warmth.

But he has business to do, and he's up and heading towards his computer before he can stagnate against the wall. Google is already up, the search bar wide and empty. Filling it with this particular questions seems so final, like the second of weightlessness right before jumping into deep water. He types it anyway, the gnawing need to know erasing everything else.

_How can you tell if you're falling in love?_

* * *

 

A muffled whine escapes his throat, but he's quick to bury his flushed face in the pillow. Images flash through his head – maybe you _pushing_ his face into the pillow? – and he lets out another needy noise, this one nominally quieter but no less embarrassing.

It's so bad but it's fantastic; the friction wasn't anything near as much as he wanted, but it was enough. Enough did seem to be the standard of his life. It was enough that where he clutched was soft, like you'd be. A different type, but that's why it was just _enough_.

He moans into the pillow, then smothers his glowing face farther into it, embarrassment spiking along with his arousal. His hips jerked against it again, seemingly without his approval, but it produced a strangled cry from his teeth anyways.

Images of you crouched over him in a dark car – Strong hands pinning him to the seat, eyes trained on him, him, only _him_ – filled his brain, and he increased his pace on the pillow, small noises leaking from his teeth, clenched in response to all the stimulation. His flush was lighting up the dark room in flashes of faint blue, adding a veneer of mystique to what was happening; though it wasn't the aesthetic that finally made him cum. It was imagining your silky voice asking him to, the weight of your body pressing down on him, the smirk he could see in your pretty, pretty–

He let out a low, strangled moan as he emptied onto the pillow, forgetting to quiet himself in the wave of pure bliss that swept over him.

When it was over, he was panting and still clinging to the pillow like his grip on it was the only thing tethering him to existence. It had certainly felt like that, pleasure blinding him to anything not in his immediate senses. He slowly unhooked his arms from it, the stiffness of them sending a shock through his body, making him freeze in place.

His weird ecto-dick disappeared from existence, along with the magic he'd just ejaculated. That was convenient, for sure. His laptop was closed on the floor, he'd found his imagination was better after gaining a few ideas... Well, more than a few.

He had fallen through the rabbit hole of the internet, and came out the other side with a whole new world inside his head. BDSM. Doms and subs. The fact there were people out there who also liked to be dominated, and more than that, people who like dominating. It was too much to hope for, but that meant there was a chance you could like it too. Maybe even like doing it with him...

But maybe not, and hopes were stupid things to hold anyways. It was hard to picture you (with your pretty eyes and shiny hair, the grace that followed you even when you were stumbling around drunk, the laugh that was so fierce when it bubbled from your lips.) with him (and the bags that had taken up permanent residence below his gaping eyesockets, the nightmares that always seemed to drive him to tears, the bones that were hard and thin and horrifically exposed) willingly. Happily.

Especially when he was thinking of you in such vile ways. A disgusted shiver ran it's way down his back as a tidal wave of guilt set in, pressing on him like it could squeeze out his sins. It couldn't and it wouldn't, and it was silly to even feel guilt over _this_ when there were so many other horrible things that still coated his hands.

It was pathetic and terrible, but even with his mind heavy with shame, he fell asleep imagining you holding him. Having no self-control and a hopeful mind was a terrible combination.

* * *

 

Sans was avoiding you.

It was making you feel **stupid** feelings.

 

You hadn't realized how accustomed you'd grown to his easy humor, his cute blushes, his infuriating smirk, until they were gone.

Now it was all stuttered excuses whenever you did manage to find him, and quick teleports to somewhere else. His moronic power was infuriating, otherwise you'd just chase him down and pin him until he listened that _it really wasn't a big deal._ You'd had nightmares, you'd had tons and tons and _tons,_ nightmares that had choked your air right out and left you with crushing emptiness in lonely, too-dark rooms, and you would've killed to have someone stay with you and comfort you and... and it wasn't anything to be embarrassed about or ashamed of and it hurt your heart he was avoiding you because of it.

You didn't know what to do. You never seemed fast enough to grab him before he poofed away, and you didn't want to invade his privacy by cornering him while he slept.

You went ahead and decided you should fallback on your normal solution, talk to Papyrus. About Sans's nightmare and about his avoidance of you. Papyrus seemed to be the resident Sans expert so you could only hope he'd have answers.

You found him, unsurprisingly, with the kittens, playing in the living room.

He looked so innocent, too pure for this world... You start to second guess your decision. It might be better to not talk to him about things as heavy as nightmares and Sans avoiding you. It would just be unnecessary stress to mar his happy life. You start backing out when he speaks to you, “HUMAN! IS THERE SOMETHING YOU NEED?” He ends with a squeak as a kitten licks his face, you can almost see his heart turn to goo.

Yeah, way too pure. “Nothing Papyrus, just happy to see you happy.” You sound tired, even to your own ears, but what can you do? You felt tired, the past few days had been full of chasing flashes of hoodies around corners and staying up at all hours for ambushes on the landings of the stairs. You'd never been avoided in your own house before, but it seemed to be a pretty easy task.

Papyrus stills at your words, and when he looks up at you, his eye sockets seem endless. “Human,” He says, and his voice is so normal sounding you're dumbstruck. “I would also be happy to see you happy.” You smile at him at those words, dripping sincerity that it seemed only Papyrus could muster. “And it has seemed that you and my brother have not been happy for the past few days.” Your smile freezes on your face, the only defense mechanism you know against hard conversations. But that's what you had come for, right? Papyrus stares at your stiff face for a second, then glances down at the kitten batting at his collarbone for attention. He strokes it, and it rubs up on him, and you think you might just cry at how adorable it all is. “I know you came here to talk. I know you need to talk, and I know you don't want to talk to me because you don't want to make me sad. But you and Sans never seem to see that I _know_ when you're sad, and it makes me sad. I would much rather bear some of your burden than go through my days knowing you're unhappy.”

 

Your smile had fallen open at some point, but you're quick to shut your gaping mouth when he's done. “That's quite possibly the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever said to me.” Are the only words you can force out; the megawatt grin he gives you after fills up your heart. “Okay Paps, I'd like some advice regarding your brother.”

“OF COURSE HUMAN!” You flinch just a bit at the return of Papyrus's actual voice, but it fills you with warmth anyways.

You were almost done explaining New Years's night (Most of it anyways, you refrained from explaining how you had threatened him like some kind of psycho. Papyrus may be more mature than you really give him credit for, but you couldn't bring yourself to explain such a violent interaction.) when Papyrus stops you. “WHAT ARE YOUR FEELINGS TOWARDS MY BROTHER, HUMAN?”

You come up short and choke on your own spit, coughing with wide eyes. Papyrus starts freaking out and loudly lamenting his woefully inadequate knowledge of humans and how to not have them make horrible noises, but you manage to not asphyxiate and that crisis at least, is averted.

You breathe deeply for a few seconds, drawing it out in the vain hope Papyrus would just forget he'd ever asked that. He easily sees through your ploy though and prompts, “HUMAN....”

“Eheheh, Papyrus.” He stares at you expectantly, completely ignoring the cats currently using his body as a jungle gym. “Well, your brother is.. he's cool. I like him. He's a good person and I'd like for him to be happy.” You figured that was a decent answer. Truthful, but not 'wow I am totally a horrible necrophiliac please smite me ASAP.'.

“ARE ANY OF YOUR FEELINGS ROMANTIC?”

You forget to breathe and blink, forget to do anything, in fact. How does one talk or move or make a face that didn't resemble a bulging-eyed goldfish.

How to exist slowly comes back to you, though that means Papyrus's knowing face comes back also. You have the sinking feeling he already knows the answer, but it wasn't like you could lie to him anyway. “I think they, uh, could be.” Good job. At least they were actual words.

Papyrus smirks mischievously, and you have to say, it is not a good look on him. “THIS IS WONDERFUL NEWS TO HEAR!”

You wince, “Uh, Paps? Do you think you could possibly not tell him?”

“DO NOT BE ALARMED HUMAN, I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, AM A SECRET KEEPER EXTRODINAIRE!”

“Err, thanks. I appreciate it.” He seemed to be taking the fact that you, a dirty necrophiliac with a tarnished soul, liked his pure, sweet, and innocent brother rather well, but Papyrus had always been accepting. You wanted to get as far away from this topic as possible now, it already felt like your face would melt off from the sheer intensity of your blush.

“So, erm, like I was saying, your brother had a nightmare and I wasn't very sure how to handle it? Is that, like, common? Are there any tips you could give me if it is?”

“IS THIS WHY MY LAZYBONES OF A BROTHER IS PUTTING SO MUCH EFFORT INTO AVOIDING YOU?” He asks instead of answering any of your questions.

Hearing him acknowledge it aloud sent a spike of indignation through you, “So he _has_ been avoiding me! I knew it!”

He seems to realize saying that was not the smartest thing he'd ever done, turning wide, worried eye sockets at you as he yells, “PLEASE DO NOT BE ANGRY WITH MY BROTHER, HUMAN. HE IS...” Papyrus sighs, the gust of wind exiting him like it never belonged there in the first place. It probably didn't, not in Papyrus, who was sunlight and green things, the entire living world in a skeleton. Irony was sweet, this time. “He is inexperienced in opening up to people.” His voice jars you less this time. You couldn't imagine him yelling these words like he does, forcing the world to hear how unbelievably excited he always was. “He doesn't... I think he's scared. But I don't think he means any harm, and I don't think he deserves your anger.”

“I'm not...” You start, and then you stop because lies were always too hard, so hard they could crack Papyrus's thin bones. “I'm mad. Kinda. Not much, I'm not _really_ mad at him. Exasperated is a better word. I just... I'd like to help him and he's not letting me and it's driving me nuts. Straight crazy.”

“That's a feeling I've had to get used to, with him. I don't think he'll ever really open up to me, he's too focused on protecting me from anything and everything. It's – It's okay. I'm used to it. He likes it, I think. I like when he does things he likes. But I think you have a chance, and I think with the right amount of push and pull, give and take – I think he'd open up to you. And I think I'd like that very much.”

You think on it. Sans trusting you with his secrets, completely and wholeheartedly. None of this silly stupid game you'd been playing, secrets on secrets on the smallest whispers of what you'd hidden.

You mean it when you say, “I think I'd like that very much too.” Papyrus's grin is everything you'd said him to be earlier and more. You could swear it warmed your insides, in the way hot chocolate would, or sunshine if you gobbled it up. “But I'd still like to know about his nightmares?”

“OF COURSE HUMAN! I SHALL BESTOW THE ENTIRETY OF MY KNOWLEDGE ON MY BROTHER'S SLEEPING HABITS ON YOU!”

 

“Uh, thanks Paps.”

 

* * *

 

You walked away from the conversation confused, amazed, proud and enlightened, which was better than you'd been for quite a while. Papyrus had been convinced that you needed to corner Sans somewhere (Not actually possible when the person in question can teleport, but if you grab onto him he isn't going anywhere without you.) and have a serious conversation, something Papyrus had warned would be 'A STRUGGLE OF EPIC PROPORTIONS'.

That was fine. Talking wasn't really your forte, but you'd master Mandarin Chinese for Sans if there was a reason to, so you thought you could just brute force your way through a deep conversation.

Papyrus had recommended that physical reassurances would be helpful in dealing with his nightmares, since he needed something to tether him to reality. That was fine. You could do that.

You were more prepared than you had been for a while as you hid behind the doorway to the kitchen, one place that Sans would have to come, sooner or later.

A small shuffling alerts you to his presence, and right as he makes it through the archway you grab his wrist as unobtrusively as you can.

 

“We need to talk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry this took so long to get out, I went to Portland for Warped tour for three days and school is starting and pride was happening and AHHHHHH  
> Also I couldn't get this chapter to be good and restarted it three times and i'm not entirely happy with the outcome BUT WHAT CAN YOU DO  
> AT LEAST THERES A LIL SIN FOR YOU GUYS  
> Just a lil  
> (cause it's embarrassing and hard to write BUT I WILL PERSEVERE)  
> Thank you to everyone that has reviewed! I really appreciate all of you, you're the reason I write.


	16. That One Time There Was An Actual Conversation [1]

He _knew_ that you'd catch him, he really did (Though he had hoped it would be more 'heated full-body pinning against the wall' and less 'surprise I grabbed your arm from behind the door'). Avoidance was a temporary fix, but the fact that he _knew_ didn't help the shot of adrenaline bursting through his system. His face was schooled carefully into his favorite mask, smile so wide it hurt the bottoms of his eye sockets.

He was psycho and sad and a horribly confusing combination of an optimist and a pessimist, and all that coalesced into him having _no fucking idea_ what you were going to say.

It wasn't like it mattered anyways, he was equally as unprepared for 'We need to talk about boundaries' as 'You need to leave my home' as 'Let me sleep with you every night so I can be there for you' (He'd admit, the last one was more of a hopeful fantasy he'd entertained in the dead of night, and he didn't even really want it anyways. Like, wow, lemme just embarrass myself in front of you the majority of nights.

Yeah, no.)

Your hand was light but insistent around his wrist, and he wondered if you could feel how fragile the bones there were. You squeezed the slightest bit as you repeated yourself, “We _need_ to talk.” His smile stayed frozen, years of practice cementing it on his face so that nothing (Not murderous children and not his brother dying and not the inevitable failure and not the inevitable second chance [second chances are only good if you had a chance in the first place]) could move it.

A low sound curls up from your throat, unfurling like a snake, sick with hunger. He felt twisted for liking it, but that wasn't exactly a new feeling. You seem to reluctantly accept that this passiveness was the answer to your command (He'd answer everything with smiles, if he could. He was good at them. That wasn't something he could say often.) “You've been avoiding me.” It wasn't the hiss he thought it would be, even though you tried to lace venom into every syllable. He could hear it, but he could also hear the hurt it was hiding, and he had the strangest realization you might actually care if you never saw him again.

You stare at him. He knows because he can feel it, heavy against him, and he wishes he had the courage to look at your face to see the expression there. But he's so far from brave, and your face is so far from where his gaze rests on the floor. The moment stretches, and he knows he'll choke into silence if he doesn't push words out right now. So for the sadness in your voice and your gentle hand on his wrist and the fact that you stayed (He had asked but you had stayed and it said nothing and everything.) he chokes out a “Yeah...” Flinches at the ensuing silence, and continues, “M'sorry.”

You sigh, hand relaxing into a lazy pressure around his wrist. “It's okay.” He thinks it must not be. “But why?”

He wants to laugh, to match the low, sad chuckle exiting you, because 'I humiliated myself and inconvenienced you and didn't want to deal with it' is the lamest answer.

 

And then you're giggling and he realizes the laughter from before wasn't yours. His teeth clack together painfully when he shuts his jaw, the noise that had been flowing from him without his consent being cut off with an abruptness that startled you. Your eyes looked at him, and he looked at your eyes, and they weren't the pools of judgment or anger or regret he thought they'd be. They were mirthful and sweet and a tiny bit sad, and he wondered if there was any life that would allow him to kiss you until onlysweetness remained.

“That was surprisingly honest.” Your teeth are so white when you flash them at him, and he wonders if they match up with his. But then your words catch up to his brain and he has the sinking feeling his silent answer wasn't as silent as he'd wanted it to be.

“Oh uh um.” He stutters, feeling his face turn blue. Maybe one day it would pop and this embarrassing existence could be over. “Well, it wasn't meant to be.”

You giggle more at that, and he finds maybe he can handle all this fucking up if you'd just giggle that sweetly every time he did it. “I wouldn't say you humiliated yourself.” You say and he takes back that earlier statement, because he can see his flushing glow lighting up your face. You must've seen something in his expression, because you continue more seriously. “Sans, all you did was ask for help. That's not humiliating and it's not something you should be ashamed of. I'm here to help you when you need it, but if you won't talk to me I won't know when you need it.”

“I don't _want_ to need it.” He felt stupidly petulant saying it, but it was the truth.

“I don't think anyone wants to need help, but no one can be independent all the time. You'll be stronger, in the end, if you let people help.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” He never expected you to preach at him.

“Hey!” You pout at him, and he really makes an attempt at maintaining eye contact even though your lips are  _right there._ At some point he failed though, because when he looked back your eyes, normally so fixated on him, were aimed down at the floor. “Look, I've had nightmares before...” You stop and he stills, heart beating. You bite your lip, and suddenly everything is far too hot. “...And I would've appreciated someone being there for me. I get it. I don't want you to go through that. I want to be _there_ for you”

“You don't want me to take you up on that.” He blurts, and it's true but sometimes he wished someone would glue his teeth shut.

“Why would I be offering then?” Your eyes are a challenge, and he's never been good at those.

“Because you don't know. You don't know how – how _bad_ it is.” And you didn't. You couldn't. The resets (and the dust and the blood and the child, the child – _theywerejustachild_ ) were his burden and his alone, and that's how he would handle them. It was better.

“I don't.” And he was always grateful for the truth. “But that doesn't mean I can't help. I'm fully prepared for whatever you throw at me, so just fucking trust me, okay?”

“What are you even _saying_ with all this?” He's growling, which is actually not what he wants to be doing, but his teeth are bared in a snarl anyways and at least if you run at this he knows you're a liar.

“I'm _saying_ ,” Your face is looming over his, eyes on fire, and he has to consciously stand his ground, “That I want to _help_ you. I'm saying I'm _here_ for you. I'm saying you don't have to handle every single _stupid_ thing alone.”

“What if I want to handle it alone!? What if I don't want you to help me!?” He doesn't know why he's yelling and he doesn't mean what he's saying but the only other option is breaking down because you're so wonderful and he can't handle it.

You take a deep breath, and he really should do the same but any air will be transformed into sobs so he doesn't.

“If that's what you want, I'll leave you alone.” You say, and you're so eerily calm he really, really wants to hit you. You stare at him and he stares at you and so much eye contact would make anyone uncomfortable, really. You continue but you don't break it, and your words don't help with much of anything, really. “Is that what you want?”

'Yes'. He could spit it at you, grind it out through his teeth till it was bits of confetti raining down on what would undoubtedly be your relieved face. He could stay in this life he'd made, one of matyrism and pessimism and the tragic spiral downward he could never seem to stop. It wouldn't be good, but it would be familiar, and his standards were never really all that high.

“No.” He said. Because you were staring at him so intently he wasn't sure he could choke out a lie.

You smile, and it's not bright. He couldn't compare it to the sun or the stars, but it reminded him vaguely of the sky that always seemed horrifyingly too big and somehow it was more endearing than all the things he loved. “Good. So no more avoiding me?”

You sound small and tired and he wants to punch himself now. “Yeah. No more.”

And then, _then,_ your grin beams at him and it is _more_ than the sun and stars. It supernovas and galaxies and he wonders why he's never tried to make you smile like that before. “Great. Want some coffee?”

“Please.” Your hand slowly slides off his, lingering like it wants to be there (You're just making sure he doesn't run, he knows this, but he can be a little romantic if he wants to).

It's unnerving how easily it becomes normal again, his silly puns curling your lips, your sly jabs blushing his face. Papyrus joins you guys at some point, all smiles and radiance, and he wonders if a family could be composed of two skeletons and a mage.

* * *

 

You were honestly all kinds of proud at how you'd handled talking to Sans. For once in your life, you'd controlled your emotions, only because you couldn't bear to see the hurt in his eyes when you inevitably hurt him.

What you were not proud of was finding excuses to skulk around his closed door after he'd gone to bed. It was stupid and you were sure he'd find your efforts embarrassing, if not horribly creepy.

You kept willing your legs to move away from his room, but thoughts of him alone, quivering, _sad,_ kept you tethered to the impossible barrier of a door. Your ears kept straining, magic pooling in them in burning wisps, trying so hard to hear any sounds of distress from his room.

You shouldn't be doing this. Even if you did hear him, even if you could pass it off as hearing it while walking to your room or the bathroom or any other reasonable place to be, you didn't want to push his boundaries so soon after he actually started talking to you again.

But what if he woke all alone and _wanted_ you there? You'd only just said you wanted to help him, a failure so soon was sure to crush this, whatever it was.

It wasn't even anything and you were scared of it ending. God, this was horrible. Nothing like this had ever happened to you, and it wasn't even a defined thing, or _anything._

But none of the actual things had ever felt like everything, not like this. Sweaty skin and lingering touches and brilliant peaks, highs of unfathomable bliss, none of it had ever consumed you like even one of his smiles. Like this burning need to protect him and see him happy, like this hunger to see him blush and squirm.

 

You'd also never actually _had_ romantic feelings before.

It was horrible.

 

You don't get a chance to wax poetic about how truly terrible feelings are, to make you do things like this, because a warbling whimper reaches your jacked-up ears through the door.

You freeze.

You really should've been thinking about what to do when the inevitable came to pass, instead of whatever romantic bullshit your mind had been spewing. Because now there were more sad noises, more broken sobs, and you were frozen in indecision.

But there was never even a decision to make, was there?

You crack the door, trying to be quiet even though waking him up had proved to be nigh-impossible in the past. A muffled sob floated through the air at you, and you tensed, crossing to his bed in quick steps. This was stupid and irresponsible and –

He's crying. He's curled up in a ball, sheets thrown around him like some kind of nest, and he's _crying_. Fat, wet tears that glow a faint blue.

You can't breathe and you can't think and you just want to **destroy** what's hurting him, you want to **break** and **smash** and _**kill.**_

But you can't.

Your magic is flaring, visibly, your rage eliciting a response without permission, but you take deep breaths and try to calm it, even as he whimpers and you feel everything inside you stop. There's nothing to fight here, and despite how horribly out of your element you are, you have to try your hand at this whole comforting thing.

You reach out, slowly, to where his forehead is scrunched. You've stopped being amazed by his ability to form facial expression days ago, but your wonder reignites as the crease smooths out under your fingers. His face is firmer than a humans would be, though not as tough as a real skull.

“Sans.” Your voice is shaky, quiet. He doesn't answer, but it wasn't like you expected him to. His hands are clutching at the covers, balling them into a scrunched mess, and you run your fingers over the thin bones, a strange mixture of guilt and fascination coursing through you. Should you be doing this? Was it... Okay?

You grab his hand, shake it slightly. “Sans. Sans, wake up.” Your voice is stronger now. You just have to wake him up and he can give you permission or he won't, and then he won't be sad anymore. You don't have to cross any weird barriers that may or may not exist, and you could finally go to bed.

He doesn't wake up though, because skeletons were the deepest sleepers in the world. What he did do was curl his hand around yours, small fingers intertwining sweetly, easily. Like they belonged there.

His voice hitches a few more times, but evens out without much fuss. When you tug at your hand, he grips it tighter.

It feels selfish to stay. It feels creepy to stay. You shouldn't stay. You should get your hand back and walk straight out of the door. But what if you shouldn't?

You'd rather him be mad than sad. And if he woke up holding your hand, well, he probably wouldn't be too furious. Right? Right.

So you sit down on the floor by his bed, trying to get as comfortable as you can without jostling your arm too much. Once you're settled, you give in to the burning desire to just stare at him, to capture all the details that were so amazingly unique to him.

He looked so much more peaceful asleep, though you supposed that was true of everyone. His face was smushed into the pillow, his cheek chubbing up below him in a way that was unreasonably adorable. His face wasn't bone, but it wasn't flesh. It was the most interesting thing you'd ever come across. You wanted to pinch his cheeks, smooth out the wrinkles that appeared whenever he though too hard.

You liked a skeleton.

You really, truly liked a skeleton.

You liked a skeleton so much you were thinking about doing silly domestic things with him, cuddling by the fire, reading books together, talking about science and emotions and all the other things you could never keep out of your head and never put in your mouth. You liked a skeleton so much you were going to sleep on the floor of his room to make sure he didn't have nightmares. You liked a skeleton so much you wanted to give him the whole world, gift wrapped in paper as blue as his blush.

What a life.

 

* * *

 

Sans comes to slowly, peacefully, and it's all so serene he doesn't even realize that it's abnormal. He floats between wakefulness and sleep, something he never does, not when the horrors his mind always replays chase him to the point of consciousness and farther every night.

When he finally opens his eyes, he lets out something between a gurgle and a squeak, because your face is inches from his and he is almost sure that's not how he went to bed.

That unfortunate noise wakes you up, a slow ordeal that involved far too much fluttering eyelashes and pinched lips to be good for his heart. For just a split second your eyes find his, and you smile so serenely at him he feels like bursting.

Then your eyes are widening and your mouth is opening and he wonders if he ever saw anything at all. “Oh – I'm... I'm sorry?” You'd shot up and he saw your lower half was entirely on the floor, which was... Odd? Then your shaking your hand and his is falling out of your grasp and he doesn't really understand, till he does, and his face turns what he has decided is his least favorite color. “You had a nightmare and uh I think it's a skeleton thing but you and Papyrus are just really hard to wake up and well I didn't want to leave you and we had that big heart-to-heart yesterday and I was hoping it was okay? Sorry if it's not.”

He was sure his mouth was open, but really, it was early and he'd much rather go back to the kind-of cuddling that was happening than whatever this was. And so, because you had been so nice and he was incredibly selfish, he mustered up some spine (Ha), and said, “Yeah, it was fine. Great, actually. If you're – if you would be fine with it, I'd kinda like to get more sleep-”

“Yeah! Yeah, I'll just be-” You cut him off, but the words were already draining into the air.

“And I'd kinda like it if you stayed.”

Your eyes trained on him, and he shifted uncomfortably. He didn't know how you could make such intense eye contact all the time, especially with such pretty eyes.

“Oh.” He could feel himself go to take it back, and maybe you felt that too because you were rushing in, “Yeah, yeah! That would be great – good.” You're blushing and stammering and he's so happy the tables have finally turned.

You take a tentative step towards him, then drop on your knees by the bed again. He's confused until he realizes you thought he meant stay exactly where you were, uncomfortable on the floor.

“You can be on the bed, if that's okay?” He says, all quiet and careful.

“Uh, _is_ it okay?” You ask, eyes wide and so beautiful he could cry.

“Why else would I offer?” And he scooches, and in another moment of bravery holds the covers up for you. You search his face, climbing in after it holds whatever you needed to find.

There's a moment, where you're staring at him and he's staring at you, breaths mingling in the cold morning air. You're blushing and he's sure he is too, and then you smirk and he smiles and everything is the best it's ever been.

You reach out an arm, a small hesitance in your eyes, “I call big spoon.”

Everything is amazing and terrifying and there's so much hope in your eyes, “I think I can deal with that.” It's a gust of air carrying words, and when they reach your face it shines golden.

He rolls over, stills when your arm wraps around him, right below his ribcage. The other finds it's way under his shoulder, where there's an indent, and intertwines with his fingers. You squeeze them, and he squeezes back, and he's sure everything will explode at any moment because things like this don't happen to monsters like him.

But your breath is painfully warm against his neck and your arm is the most comforting weight he's had on him, and it feels like the realest thing that has ever happened.

“G'night Sans. Sleep tight.” You squeeze him to emphasize the word 'tight' and it's more endearing than it had any right to be. You're already falling asleep, he can tell in your deep breaths, and he realizes you must've had almost none, sitting on the floor like you had been. You'd been ready to do it again, just because he asked.

 

You were something special.

 

This was going to hurt to lose.

* * *

 

Twice in one day, consciousness had lapped at him slowly, languidly, none of the terror and thrashing he'd come to associate with waking up. He realizes why as he comes to, a rhythmic sounds slowly drawing him to the world. It takes him a while to realize it's a heartbeat, _your_ heartbeat. He'd lain across you at some point, skull mashed against your sternum, arms clinging wherever they could. Yours were a lovely weight on top of him, and it felt like nothing but this could ever matter.

Legs entwined, pressed up so close, it was heaven.

“You awake?” Your voice is more alert than he expects, he gives a sleepy grumble in return. “Good. I have to... I have to tell you something.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So as I'm sure you all have noticed, my updates have gotten farther apart. I'm sad to say they will probably continue on like this, at least until I figure out what college I want to transfer to and apply and maybe have my life back under control. I will continue to chip away at this story though, it will be finished. IT WILL BE FINISHED. I swear.  
> Also I hurt my brain a lot this past weekend so if i seem more dumb than usual theres a good chance its that.  
> Oops.   
> Sorry.  
> Maybe it will stop.


	17. That One Time There Was An Actual Conversation [2]

His non-existent heart sinks (Strange, that he can feel it so clearly even without the necessary equipment.). It had been stupid to go ahead and decide everything would be okay from now on, because when was it ever okay? When had anything _ever_ gone right? He was a scientist, but he had ignored all the data, all the ugly correlations that pointed towards the fact he would never, ever be happy. He was simply undeserving. He had turned a blind eye socket to everything, chose blissful ignorance, and now it was all going to come crashing down because...

Well, who knows. You had every reason to explain how much of a mistake this was – he was a skeleton, for one. A literal skeleton, calcium and collagen and all the hard, poky bits you could ever need. Maybe that's why you were awake, he was so uncomfortable you hadn't been able to sleep. Maybe he'd cried all over you and hadn't even realized, or maybe you'd just come to the conclusion he wasn't worth it because... Well, because he wasn't.

He couldn't be angry. He _wasn't_ angry, really. Just a strange and resigned sadness, a desolation that was not unlike what he'd been feeling for... For forever. For years layered on top of years, lifetimes that no one else would ever remember.

 

So when he looked up at you, he could feel that his face was slack, empty. It wasn't anger and it wasn't sadness, because you didn't deserve to feel bad just as much as you didn't deserve a stupid skeleton who only ever cried and felt guilty for things he would undoubtedly do again.

“Hey.” And you sounded panicked, which wasn't what he really wanted (Not getting what he wanted was the theme, it seemed). He was still laying all over you, and he realized it would probably be better for the both of you if he removed himself (Even if you were so soft and warm that all he wanted to do was stay there forever.). So he did. “Sans?” You try again, and he stares at the hardwood under your bed, the whorls making patterns that distracted his brain just enough. “Man, you're not making me feel all that great about saying this.” You sound nervous, and it's _bad._

Bad enough the anger he thought he didn't have, that he shouldn't have, bubbles up and foams under his teeth. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was supposed to make your rejection easy.”

“My... My wha-” He's about to teleport away, because he'd made it clear he knew what you were saying and there was nothing else to it, but you grab his wrist, encircled fingers reminiscent of the day before.

It made him more mad, or maybe something closer to hysterical, because you had been so sweet then, and you had said so many things, and he couldn't really expect you to keep them but he had anyways. “Oh, so-” He starts, snappy, irritated. He wants to go somewhere far away and cry out all his expectations, and you aren't letting him.

“Sans! Fuck man, lemme just talk here.” He shuts up, because he'd probably do anything you asked of him. Always. It made him want to cry more. “Maybe the whole 'I have to tell you something' thing wasn't the best way to go about this, but I'm nervous, okay? Really, really nervous.” He looks up and sympathizes despite himself. You look pale and your eyes are wide and a bit wetter than normal, and, well. He was in deep. Obviously and unreasonably so. “Because... well. I like you. Romantically. Stupid fuzzy feelings, weird overprotective impulses, this strange need to see you smile? Yeah, it's like the whole nine yards. And I didn't want... It didn't seem right to keep you in the dark after you'd been so – so trusting. It felt like I was lying about my intentions.”

He didn't even-

He was stupid.

He was so stupid.

His tendency to prepare himself for the worst possible scenario, always, had come back with a vengeance and now he had been an asshole when you were trying to confess-

“You don't have to answer...” You trail off, looking miserable.

“No!” That might not have been the best answer, and he backtracks quickly. “Wait, well, yes? I don't know, I'm sorry, I misunderstood.” You eye him, face schooled into an unreasonably perfect 'no shit' expression. “I, uh, like you too.” You wait, and even though you were the one to confess first, he's unreasonably nervous when he tacks on, “Romantically.”

Your face blooms into what was quickly becoming his favorite smile, all scrunched eyes and pearly teeth, stars stuck in your gums. “You're adorable. And terrible. Please don't ever jump to conclusions like that again.”

He was smiling, and he couldn't stop even as guilt and embarrassment flooded him, poked at his eyes with unshed tears. “Yeah, m'really sorry. You didn't deserve that. It was dumb.”

“It's alright,” Your smile has stayed firmly in place, and for now, he believes you. “Are you ever going to come back here though?” You reach your arms out, and he realizes he was still perched on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah, definitely.” He smiles at you, and you smile back, and then he's back in your arms, curled up like he'd never left. But now it was better. Now he knew you returned his feelings, which was never even in the realm of things he let himself consider before. But he'd almost fucked it all up by trying to keep himself from being fucked up, and he didn't even know how to fix that. “I'm really sorry. Thanks for being amazing.” He figured apologies would be a good start.

“It's okay. I'm just happy it worked out.” You tightened your arms around him, and he realizes there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

“Me too.” He sighs into your collarbone, peace washing over him.

“Going back to sleep already?” You tease, words bubbly.

“Mmm. Got years to make up for, after all.” He realizes that's a mood killer after it comes out of his mouth, “Sorry, I just-”

“Hey, don't apologize. I'm happy to help you make up years of sleep. Trust me, there's nothing I'd rather be doing than cuddling you at the moment.” He smiles against you as your words mirror his earlier thoughts. “Except...” You trail off mischievously, and he raises his head with a questioning expression. You catch his chin with gentle fingers, and make the intense eye contact you seemed so fond of. “Sans, could I kiss you now?”

His mouth parts the slightest bit, your hand catching it before it can go into full jaw-dropping territory. “Are you sure? It's just bo-”

And then your mouth is on his.

You're kissing him senseless, and he doesn't have a single clue what to do – even if he did, he doubted there was enough brainpower to actually follow through; everything feels like it shorted out the second your sightly chapped lips collided with his teeth. You're warm, so warm, and it doesn't seem to phase you at all that you're just kissing teeth. It's sweet and gentle and the tiniest bit electric, and he thinks he could never have a better first kiss.

“Perfect.” You say after you pull away, and he has to agree. You tilt his head down and kiss his skull, and he can feel the blush spreading over him. You seem to see it too, a giggle escaping the mouth that was so loving it hurt, and he collapses on you, nuzzling his face under your chin so you couldn't see his blue face. “Sleep well, you cutie.”

The endearment slips off your tongue easily, and he blushes even more furiously at it. He wasn't used to affection, much less this much affection.

“Too much?” You ask.

“Nah, _perfect_. Thanks.” He sighs into you, forcing himself to relax. It gets easier as you stroke his head, scratching at the area where his skull meets his vertebrae.

“Of course.” He can hear the smile in your words, and it makes him match.

He doesn't want to think it will be okay. He doesn't want to ignore all the data, the conclusion all the correlations have led him to, but...

He does.

 

* * *

 

You wake up to a strange life, stranger than ever before. And that's saying something, because before there had been parents that chittered and screamed, a soul that would always be hidden under meat and mistrust, and the guarded (scared) looks from the townspeople. There had been an overabundance of power and loneliness, and all the vices that came with it. There were shadows stuck to the walls and sly looks from across smoke-filled rooms, and it seemed nothing could ever be stranger.

And now you were waking up wrapped around a skeleton.

Life had a way of smashing all your expectations.

Which was a problem, really, because the things you expected were normal and easy to deal with, and this, while wildly better than anything that had happened before, was neither normal nor easy to deal with.

It made your muscles twitch and your heart race. It made your breathing stutter and your stomach clench, and it made you need to _leave._ To leave because you'd never been in this situation, never wanted to make someone happy, be good to them, be good _for_ them – ever. You didn't know how. Never in all the lessons had you been taught softness, or compassion, and now you knew how to smash and break and kill –

But you didn't know how to love.

And that was the only thing you actually needed.

But leaving Sans alone to wake up was the last thing you wanted to do, because you wanted him to be happy and you wanted to _make_ him happy, and you were panicking because what if you couldn't but you couldn't because you were panicking and it was horrible, horrible, _horrible_..

You hadn't realized you'd reacted noticeably until sleepy eye sockets were blinking at you, so cute and innocent and _trusting;_ trusting of you, with your haywire power (And emotions) and violent nature, your dark soul and bad habits...

“Er'thing okay?” He slurs, half into your sternum.

“Yeah.” it's choked and you hope he doesn't notice, because you don't want this, you don't want to _feel like this._ “I'm going to go get some food though?” That comes out just a tad better, just a tad stronger and it seems to be enough. His affirmation is adorable, and he rolls off of you without any struggle.

He was so cute, such a lovely being, and you...

You were struggling with the door, struggling to get out before you blew up, because you had to be good to Sans, had to not blow up on _him_. You opened and shut it much gentler than your emotions, trying to be quiet, trying to be sweet. Trying to let him sleep. It worked, or it didn't, but either way you were left in an empty hallway with magic snapping all around you, licking at your skin, making your hair stand on end. Making you want to _explode_.

You're flying out the window before you even realize it, magic spring-boarding you into the air, making you weightless, making it okay.

Until you were on the ground again, and it was cold but not cold enough. You'd tried to cushion your fall, but your magic supported one side more than the other, twisting your ankle and flinging you into the ground. A faceplant into snow was probably what you needed, honestly, but you still felt hothot _hotHOT **HOT**_ because it wasn't enough, not at all _ **.**_ You scooped snow into your hands, but it melted quickly, far too quickly, running down your arms in cold rivulets. It didn't feel real or right, but nothing felt real or right and it was all taking you back, backbackbackback

To a time when there was a schedule every day, all day, and the only way to escape it was to explode in a shower of glory and guts. They loved when you exploded, loved when you showed off your power, and they hated it because you weren't theirs, not theirs to control, not theirsnottheirs _not_ _ **theirs**_

But you were their creation, and you always would be, in every moment and every second except for when you went off, because then you were the universe's. You were shattered into a billion pieces, tossed throughout the cosmos. You belonged to something much greater than two idealists living in isolation.

And then you were back and empty and nothing felt like much of anything anymore. There was no more snow – why was there no more snow? But there was the endless gray of the sky, and there was more flakes falling, and there was a satisfying lack of anything inside you.

You laid down and didn't move, didn't think (But you did, think, that is. You can't not, but there was nothing inside, no emotions to overlay it, so the ways their carefully pointed questions had changed to rambling and raving, and how that had changed to chatters directed at the air, and how that had changed to silence, well, it didn't spark you into a flare like usual. It didn't drown you or crush you, it just danced in your thoughts, taunted your apathy.)

And you thought that maybe you understood why you did this a bit better. The blankness, the peace – it was like a cheap imitation of the Void. Of the feeling you got whenever Sans teleported you, the split-second of perfection.

 

This couldn't compare, but it was all you'd had, for years.

 

The monotony of the sky is interrupted by a skull. “HUMAN, ARE YOU ALRIGHT? THERE IS NOW A CRATER.”

Oh, Papyrus. You glance around, and yep, it certainly seemed as though the ground was curling up around you. A thin layer of snow had started to collect, meaning you'd been here a second. “I'm fine, Paps. Just needed to get some energy out.”

Another skull pops up beside his, and you smile despite yourself at the cute eyelights of Sans. “Hey.” Your voice sounds small.

“Hey.” He replies, combining nervousness and concern in an unfairly cute expression.

“I SEE. WELL, THERE IS APPLE PIE IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO RE-ACQUIRE SOME ENERGY.”

Papyrus is backlit, his ridiculously red getup contrasting heavily with the gray of the sky. Sans blends in more, blurring the edges of endlessness with his blue sweatshirt.

It was choice – but it wasn't, already.

It had been obvious for a very long time – you could only ever choose them.

Papyrus helps you up, and you thread your fingers through Sans's as you make your way back to the house. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He replies, squeezing your fingers.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, pie wasn't all that great for boosting energy. You really took a lot out of yourself earlier, and your eyelids wouldn't stop drifting shut. It didn't help you were ensconced in a blanket with Sans leaning against you, a steady warmth that stabilized your world.

“Tired?” His voice held a bit of a rasp, and you had to remind yourself it was not the time to jump his bones (Haha.) (But really, you'd have to talk to him about the deal with skeletons and sex.)

“Mmm.” It was meant to be words, really, but when did things go as planned?

Sans chuckles, another low noise that had the real possibility of getting you _excited_ – if you were awake in any real capacity. “Hey Paps, you ready for your bedtime story?”

“WHY YES BROTHER, I AM EXTREMELY READY.” You slant your eyes open to see Papyrus doing an unsubtle eyebrow wiggle. You'd grin, but your face muscles get stuck somewhere in the area of 'drunken lip quirk'. It's a shame that you aren't even intoxicated.

“I'll be right back.” He murmurs it in your ear, and you shiver pleasantly before managing a disgruntled noise. “Try not to get too lonely.” You're sure the shitgrin is plastered on his face, though you can't seem to find the energy to check.

You drift into a subtle sleep while he's gone, waking easily once he sits by you again. “Would you be okay with sleeping together again?”

You would've teased him, if you could form words. As it was, some mumbles you hoped would be taken as an affirmative slipped past your lips. It seemed to have the desired effect, because in a second you were nestled into the thin arms of a certain skeleton.

Your eyes fluttered open to find Sans grinning at you, all teeth and pride. You muster up a curl of your lips to give back to him, and he seems pleased. Your body is coated in blue, but it doesn't even register as something to be worried about. It was Sans's blue. Sans's magic.

You were asleep again before you ever reached the bed. There was something terribly dangerous about how comfortable you were with Sans.

* * *

 

You woke up to hands shaking you, and it was pure instinct for you snatch them away. You pulled them over you, slammed them to the bed, then opened your eyes to analyze your assailant.

It was Sans, of course. The life you had been trained for simply wasn't reality. There were no attackers here, just a skeleton looking as worried as you'd ever seen him. (There had been, back then. Surprises around every corner, only antagonism. It's okay. It wasn't then anymore.)

“Sorry, cutie. I have stupid reflexes.” You let go of his wrists slowly, examining his glowing face for any signs of pain. None, but... embarrassment? Excitement? Something else? There was some emotion there you weren't entirely sure of.

“It's..ah, it's fine.” His voice has a silly wobble to it, and you felt the need to dissect it, find out why it was like that. He shakes his skull quickly, then continues talking in a much neater voice. “You, um. You slept for eighteen hours though.”

“Oh.” You didn't really have all that much to say to that. You'd always gone into almost-coma's after you expelled a lot of magic, which was... not exactly a deterrent.

Sans stares at you and you stare at him, and it doesn't feel as natural as you'd want. “That's not normal? For humans? From what I know?” He attempts into the stale air.

“Yeah. I'm not exactly a normal human. We've been over this.” It was snappier than intended, and you internally cursed.

“I'm just worried.” He grumbles to the wall. “You told me you were getting food yesterday and went out and just like... exploded, instead. And then you were basically dead all night and didn't wake up for hours after you actually fell asleep.”

You curse yourself more, and push through your emotional constipation and defense mechanisms to give an honest answer. “Hey, sorry. I just... I get in these weird... things. I don't know. It's like I have too much energy but it's not good energy and there's a lot of panic and the only way to fix it is to just... expel it all. And it's really draining, but a good kind of draining. I don't know.” It's not everything really, but you thought that maybe the second day of a relationship was not when you should get into your complicated parent issues.

“Hey.” His voice sounds a lot closer, and when you look up, his physical being matches it. “It's okay. Thanks for talking to me. Um, I know we don't really – we haven't really been dating that long – or at all? I don't know, we never talked about whether you wanted this to be a relationship or what-”

“I'm okay with-”

“Hey, it doesn't matter much right now. That's not the point. The point is I don't expect you to just open up to me, especially because you don't seem to have much experience with that.” You shoot him a look, but he just smiles and continues. “I don't either, no worries. And I hope you don't expect me to just spill all my secrets, but the thing is, well. This sounds lame now that I'm trying to say it, but communication is really, really important. And even if you can't open up to me now, I want you to be honest about that. And I would hope that opening up to me is a goal in your mind, and I'll make opening up to you a goal for myself too. Because, well. I don't have much experience in relationships either, but I'd kinda like this to be serious. And to do that we need to trust each other.”

His face had steadily gained a blue tint throughout that, and now he was reverting to his nervous habits, trying to tuck his cheek behind his hood. “Hey.” His eyes shyly shift up to you, “C'mere.” He slid into your arms like he belonged there. It was honestly surprising how easily you'd gotten the art of skeleton cuddling down. “I'll be honest, I've never exactly... dated someone before.” Now was also not the time to get into your sexual exploits, so you tactfully kept that detail to yourself. “And, I don't know. A big part of why I got so panicked is – well, I just don't think I know how. I want to be good to you, but I'm not sure if I can.”

“I've never dated anyone either. I'm not sure either. But I'm willing to figure it out with you, if you're willing to try with me.”

“That sounds nice.” You give him a squeeze, prompting a satisfied murmur. “So,” You venture after a second, “Does this mean we're dating?”

“If that's what you'd like.” He answers, curled against you.

“I think I'd like that very much.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! This took forever, and while that's entirely my fault, it's not as simple as being lazy. It's actually as simple as having almost a full chapter written and spilling water on my laptop. I went a different direction with the rewrite and I like it better though, so it's not all bad!   
> Also, the next chapter is going to be almost entirely mindless relationship fluff cut into small snippets documenting their relationships progression for a couple months, because you guys deserve it. I'll be taking requests if you want a specific scene to happen in their relationship (or in general), though if it messes with the plot (which will actually start the chapter after that) I can't, so there's no guarantee I'll write it. Feel free to put your suggestion in a review, and I'll tell you if I'll be using it when I reply:)   
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you all have a wonderful day!


	18. The fluff you guys have waited half a year for

Ignorance is bliss. You'd been told that your whole life, some simple advice that's thrown around after revelations kill the mood. You understood, had internalized, knowledge brought pain. But you didn't understand that happiness was simply the state of being unaware.

* * *

 

“So, what's the deal with hair?” You glance at Sans in the bathroom mirror, send him a smile when he catches your eye in it. His face is sleepy and sweet, posture relaxed, slouched against the wall like it was the most comfortable thing in the world.

You look away, determined to not get caught up in the stupid fuzzy feelings seeing him completely at ease in your presence gave you. “The deal? I mean, what are you confused about?”

“Well, it seems... Inconvenient?” Your gaze darts back up to him, then slowly takes in the sorry state your reflection was in. A comb with some of the spines missing was tangled in a knot, a few more spines threatening to disengage completely from the plastic backing. Another spine was wrapped up in some strands, dangling by your cheek.

“A lot of things about being human are inconvenient.” You finally reply, returning to ripping at the keratin falling from your head.

“I can agree with that. Isn't this a choice though? You guys shave other places, why not that one?”

You pause again, bringing a strand up for inspection. “It's kinda like a personal statement, like the clothes you wear or whatever. I suppose I could shave it all off, it would certainly be easier.”

“I like it, actually. I mean, do what you want, but it looks nice. And feels nice. And is nice.”

“I wasn't really considering it, no worries. Not that it matters though, I doubt I'll have any left by the time I'm done brushing it.” It was a joke, but you did keep up a constant state of concern over how much hair falls out of your head. It seemed like a lot, like in-a-month-you-won't-have-hair status. It had been quite a few months though, and it was still here, so you had to assume it was staying.

“That's because you're being so rough with it.” He steps closer, winds his fingers over yours on the comb, “Here, let me try.”

You release it into his grasp, then let out a pleased hum as he gathers your hair and starts sliding the comb through it gently, taking his time with the knots riddled through it. You sigh peacefully, content.

“Does that feel nice?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his words. That doesn't stop the slightly dirtier turn your thoughts take...

“Mmmhmm.” You mumble.

“Another reason to keep it then.”

* * *

 

 

There hadn't been much of a selection of alcohol underground. Sans has since decided that was for the best, but that didn't mean you introducing him to everything he'd been missing out on was a bad thing.

He stared at the oddly shaped glass in his hand, bubbles clinging to clear sides as though floating up and joining the rest of the air would spell their demise.

“So, this is champagne?” He asked. It smelled fruity and not the slightest bit alcoholic, and he couldn't help the intrusive paranoia saying it wasn't actually alcoholic at all.

“Yeah, it tastes wonderful. Like fruity alcoholic soda. ” You pour yourself a glass, gracefully topping it off like you'd done it hundreds of times. You probably had. “This is kind of low quality though, it's really hard for me to justify buying a hundred dollar bottle of this shit.”

“I don't think I'd be able to justify that either.” He glanced down at the glass, where the yellow tinted liquid had significantly less bubbles than the last time he'd looked.

When he looked up, you were staring at him expectantly. Your face split in a smile and you stepped closer, something that had him smiling tentatively back. “Cheers.” It was a throaty whisper as you clinked the glasses together. Instead of pulling back, you snaked your arm around his, glass finding it's way back to your mouth. Unwilling to be left behind, he brought his own glass to his teeth, following your lead in draining it all. It tasted fruity and sweet, but a slight bite let him know it was actually alcoholic.

When he looks up, your staring at him intently. “Good?” You question. He nods, smiles. And then you kiss him.

He has the strangest feeling he could never get bored of your lips.

* * *

 

This time, it was mezcal.

 

This time, there was a worm in the bottom.

 

“Wha- what is that?” He couldn't stop the stutter, just like he couldn't stop the wince as you turned the bottle right side up and the worm floated gently to the bottom.

“This is mezcal.” It was like you thought that was a reasonable explanation.

“That wasn't really what I was _worm_ dering about.” His voice had the nervous edge he hated, but it was hard to not when you were pouring him a glass of... worm alcohol.

The way you looked at him suggested that the half of the bottle that had already been drank was a recent development. “Awww, are you scared of a lil worm?” You wink, then go back to pouring. “It's actually a moth larva.”

He supposed that was supposed to make him feel better.

 

It didn't.

 

Before he really realized what was happening, the glass was in his hands, a lime slice from unknown origins impaled on the side.

“Uh?” He looked up at you, and you smirked.

“Like this.” Your tongue darted out and licked the rim of the cup, where what he assumed was salt had escaped his notice before. Then, the drink was gone in a smooth motion and the lime slice was in your mouth.

He looked at the worm alcohol and your face and felt very confused.

“Is this a human thing?”

“Just drink it.”

And he did. It wasn't bad.

 

* * *

 

“HELLO, FELLOW HOUSE-DWELLERS. I HAVE BEEN INFORMED OF SOMETHING VERY INTRIGUING, AND I WOULD LIKE YOUR COOPERATION IN EXPLORING THIS IDEA.”

“Uh, wha?” You oh-so-eloquently reply, startled from the stupor Sans had placed on you when he'd started playing with your hair (He thinks hair is the coolest thing ever, and since this results in you getting pets quite often, you can't complain.)

“WELL, I WAS USING SANS' COMPUTER TO WATCH CAT VIDEOS,” He shoots a pointed look at the television currently playing 'Cosmos' in front of you, clearly unimpressed. You deign to not question why he would watch cat videos when he is the owner of two cats, one of which was currently desperately trying to get his attention (by ignoring him, of course). “AND ONE OF THEM INVOLVED A CAT PLAYING 'TAG'. NOW, BEING AN INTELLECTUAL, I TOOK IT UPON MYSELF TO LOOK UP THIS UNFAMILIAR WORD.”

At this point, there was no question as to where this was going, so you took it upon yourself to speed up the process. “You'd like to play tag?”

“HUMAN.” He looks at you, eyes surprisingly soulful for being holes in his skull, “I WOULD LOVE TO PLAY TAG.”

Sans had no objections, provided hiding was allowable (“Minimum movement would be _tag_ -riffic” “That was _tag-_ errible” “EAHHHH”) so within ten minutes boundaries had been set and a seeker had been chosen – you, of course, because Sans was too lazy and Papyrus had a 'GRAND HIDING SPOT, WORTHY OF A MEMBER OF THE ROYAL GUARD'.

You didn't mind exactly, you were much better at chasing than hiding.

The waiting put you on edge though, moments slowing ticking by as you leaned against the wall, eyes closed. Their movements slowly ceased, and at the count of sixty, you let your gaze open once again.

Time for the hunt.

You slunk from room to room, soft footfalls near silent. It was an old house, and it made plenty of noise simply from existing, you didn't need to help it.

Neither of then were in the kitchen, though you had expected that's where both of them would be. Sans, because it was close to where you'd started and he'd be able to snack; Papyrus because he knew the kitchen better than you at this point.

Without any clue, you continued your silent path through the house, keeping an ear out for any movement. Flickers outside caught your attention, but it was just the snow starting up again.

You climbed up the stairs, two at a time, the nebulous need for silence forgotten for the moment. Once on the second floor, you resumed quietly stalking through the hallways, peeking into every room as you passed. The thing is, Papyrus is a huge skeleton. Like, huge. Taller than any human you'd seen, for sure (Not that you'd seen _all_ that many humans). It wasn't like there were an abundance of places for him to hide.

Two more rooms, then on the third one, the door hit something. Something you were sure wasn't supposed to be there. You didn't let on that you knew, instead crouching and slowly coming forward enough to peek up at the offending object.

The offending object had eyesockets instead of eyes, which is something you'd definitely gotten used to, but not so much after solitude and a mission had raised your tensions. For just a second, you were lost in panic, rising magic, years of training...

“HUMAN!” And then it was Papyrus. Just Papyrus. “YOU HAVE FOUND THE GREAT PAPYRUS, I AM IMPRESSED!”

You smile at him, a twinge of your lips. “Thanks, Paps. It was a struggle, I'll admit.”

Turns out, Sans was a bit more of a struggle. You'd scoured literally every crevice of your house, _twice_ before you realized he could fucking teleport. And you hadn't thought to add 'no teleporting' to the rules. The little shit.

This required a whole new tactic, and with it, quite a bit of thought. You sat on the floor, legs crossed, and thought. Sans. Sans was most comfortable in the kitchen, the living room, his room, and Papyrus's. That was two rooms on the ground floor, and two rooms on the second floor. You'd taken the stairs like an absolute maniac the first time, so he'd obviously heard you, but it was deathly silent and the stairs squeaked like a bitch, so getting up there without him knowing would probably be a struggle. Even if you did, if you picked the wrong room to search, he almost certainly hear you from the other, since him and Paps shared a wall. If he was smart (something you knew for a fact he was) he'd be hiding out in one of the closets, so he'd be able to teleport away should you actually enter the right room.

So, tactically, it would be a better idea to get him on the ground floor. The kitchen and living room shared a doorway, so if you could figure out a way into tricking him to teleporting down there, you'd have easy access to both rooms. There were hidey-holes in both of them, definitely, and he could teleport directly into one of them, but Sans seemed the type to teleport on the couch or in front of the fridge instead. Partly because he wasn't all that competitive, when it came down to it, and partly because he was Sans and being comfortable was important.

With that done, you just had to figure out how to actually trick him. Shame that was the hard part.

Using Papyrus was possibly not the most noble idea, but it seemed to be the only one. It had been quite a bit since you'd found him, and you were sure he wasn't just lazing around, waiting for the next round. Paps always seemed to be doing something, and this time proved no different. He was swaying in the kitchen, humming something, a happy little smile on his lips. Whatever he was making smelled like cinnamon and joy, and you knew you couldn't ever use him for a worse purpose than this. But in the end, this was a simple little game and Paps was the key to victory.

“Hey Paps, could you possibly get me my hairbrush from the bathroom? I would but I haven't found Sans yet and it's off-limits.” The bathroom could lock and it was also quite necessary, so to avoid any trickery or awkward situations, it had been deemed forbidden.

“OF COURSE HUMAN! IT IS A PLEASURE FOR I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, TO HELP YOU!”

Oh Paps. You knew you didn't deserve him, but moments like this really drove it home.

He stomped up the stairs, and sure enough, in a second Sans had blipped in, simply stepping through thin air like there was so obviously a door there. He looked up, adorable pinpricks widening as your hand closed down on his shoulder.

“You.. But?”

And then Papyrus is coming down, happy as a clam, holding a hairbrush.

“Gotcha.” You purr.

“You?” His eyes keep flicking between you and Paps, and he looks like he's cringing away. The air feels progressively thicker, tension filling your lungs. “You used him?” It's a throaty whisper, cutting into you far better than any knife.

“I HAVE ACQUIRED THE... SANS?” Papyrus's voice kills the tension immediately, though Sans is still wide eyed when he looks at his brother. It's a slow morph into his normal lazy expression, and even when it comes it feels too fragile.

“Yeah bro?” He says, and it's scary that it sounds exactly like his normal voice.

“ARE YOU...” Papyrus's eyes dart between us, “Alright?” You gulp as Papyrus's voice drops to a reasonable level. Something was going terribly wrong and you felt like the cause, standing idly by as the train wreck explodes.

“Yeah Paps, just a bit tired. In fact, I think I'll be taking a nap.” His smile hurts _your_ cheeks with how wide it is.

And then he's strolling out, and you're entirely sure that once he's past the doorway he's ripping into another place entirely.

* * *

 

“Sans?” You question into the dark room, voice oddly stiff.

He doesn't answer. You aren't really even sure he's in this place. Maybe he went back Underground, and maybe he likes that better, and maybe you could be okay with that. (You really didn't want to be.)

“Um, Sans....” Still no answer, but you could monologue into a dark room for hours in the hope he'd actually _talk_ to you. It had been... it had been too long. “Well, alright. I'm sorry, first of all. I didn't mean to be malicious towards Papyrus, I didn't mean to use him or anything that terrible, I just. Well. I guess I let my competitive side take over. It computed as just some mild trickery for a silly game and it didn't matter much and if I had known it was a big deal to you, I never would've done it.”

Silence.

You didn't know what you expected.

The light is a strange contradiction when you turn around. Bright and yellow and fake, and so obviously not hiding Sans.

You step, and stop. You thought that possibly, maybe, you'd heard... “I'm sorry.”

You turn around, stare into the darkness. “Sans?”

“I'm sorry.” It was definitely his voice, coming from the dark crack where you hadn't completely shut the door. You halted, chewed on a lip already shredded.

“Sans.” His name shuddered through you. “Sans, you don't have to be sorry.”

“I-I'm so sorry.” It whines up into a painful pitch at the end, and you're through the door, into the dark.

“It's alright, Love. I'm sorry too. I'm so sorry.” You have a vague idea of where the bed is, and therefore, where he is, and you shuffle towards it.

It hits your legs unexpectedly, and you pitch forward, a hand the only thing stopping you from sprawling across the bed, and quite possibly, Sans.

He feels you fall though, and a small skeletal hand brushes your cheek before cupping your face. “I forgive you-”

“I'll never do it again, never ever.”

“I know, I know.” His voice is too raspy and you want to make him tea, something sweet and strong and soothing. Instead you lay in his arms and spew a trail of “I'm sorry”'s and “I forgive you”'s

* * *

 

You don't know that you fell asleep until you wake up, bleary and trapped in a cage of bones. This would be quite alarming if you weren't dating a skeleton, but as it is you clutch a forearm closer to you and nuzzle a skull.

* * *

 

 

“Ssanss?” Your voice sounds weird, but you chalk it up to the darkness surrounding you. Or maybe the shots you'd downed. One of those was a tad more realistic than the other.

“Wassup buttercup?” He put too much emphasis on all the wrong syllables, but somehow it still left you blushing like crazy. Again, quite possibly the alcohol. Or maybe it really was the darkness this time. Who knows.

You didn't actually know why you'd said his name in the first place, but that wasn't really a problem, because you did have some questions. “Why is it dark?”

“You've been sleeping for hoouuurrrrssss. It wasn't dark houurrss ago.”

You think for a second, then giggle. “I know how daylight works, but we have electricity for a reason, ya goof.”

“No one bothered to turn on the lights.” He's pouting, you can tell.

“So, you didn't bother to turn on the lights?”

“Semantics.” His glowing eyes lower to mischievous slits as he speaks the next words, “Besides, you already illuminate my life.”

A second of intensive, blank staring occurs, and then you fall over laughing, Sans following right behind.

“Now if only you could say stuff like that without joking.” You poke him in the ribs, teasing.

“Who said I was joking?” His eyes, beautiful, iridescent pearls, find yours.

And then he kisses you.

* * *

 

The first time you took your shirt off in front of Sans, it was both mildly concerning and almost offensively adorable. You'd just been changing into a different shirt than you'd slept in, because every now and then it seemed simply inexcusable to stay in the same clothes for days. And it hadn't really occurred to you that it was the first time you took your shirt off around him, in fact you had thought he was still asleep (not that it mattered, really, modesty wasn't exactly a concern of yours, especially after dating a few weeks.) But right as you bent down to pick up the new shirt, a muffled choking sound reached your ears, causing you to turn around in concern.

The blue glow was the first thing you registered, it was fiercer than you've ever seen, lighting the room up even in the daylight. The next thing you registered was his skeletal arm thrown in front of his face, squishing against his weird bone eyelids, which were smashed together so tightly you kinda feared for his health.

“Uh, Sans?” You said, not really putting two and two together.

“Hmm-MM!” He starts to open his eyes halfway through, then seems to regret his decision and slams his eyes back shut, his other arm coming up to also cover his face.

“Err, well.” He doesn't move and you continue, “Are you alright?”

“I'm kinda _shirt_ ing my pants, if you haven't noticed.” You stared at him for a good second, connecting the dots, then looked down at the shirt in your hand.

“Your embarrassed I took my shirt off?” He doesn't answer, but when you step closer he twitches. “Sans, we're like, dating and stuff. If you forgot.”

He mumbles something you can't quite hear, and you perhaps erroneously decide this is a good time to talk about something you've felt needs to be addressed. “If you're asexual or otherwise not interested, that's fine, but like, it's just my body.”

“No!” He opens his eyes, turns nuclear blue, and slams them shut. “I just um... I don't want you to think I'm a pervert.”

“What?” He doesn't answer, apparently embarrassed to the point of being mute. “Er, okay, well. We're still dating, as far as I know, and I'm not sure how it works Underground but up here sexual attraction is like, intertwined with dating in the majority of cases. So I kinda expect you to be sorta interested in my body.”

“Does that mean you're... um... sexually attracted to me?” He peeks out in the most adorable way before going back into hiding, “And could you possibly put your shirt back on? Just for now?”

You giggle, a high titter that might've been embarrassing if Sans wasn't already so gone. “Yeah, and yeah.” You duck into the shirt, arrange it quickly, and crawl onto the bed.

He peeked out, then finally relaxed his arms, facing me with a skull still stained blue. “Really?”

“Well, yeah. I thought we established this the first night.”

His arms return to over his head, and a muffled plea reaches my ears, “Please don't talk about it.”

“Alright, sorry.” You say truthfully, the memories of the first night he was at your house making you uncomfortable. The awkward silence stretched for seconds, minutes too long, until:

“You could, uh, take your shirt off again if you want.”

* * *

 

You toddled to the bed, balance perfect in the drunken way where you were falling all over yourself, but not on the floor. Sans' hand was clutched in yours, and he was guiding you, or you were guiding him, but either way you both made it up stairs _and_ a ladder, landing finally in your bed.

Or, well. Sans' landing on the bed and you landed above him, arms holding you just high enough you wouldn't crush him.

His face is pale blue and grinning, a wild, unabashed grin that was so different from the one that seemed permanently plastered on his skull, “Hi.” He breathes the word out, and something about that whoosh of air has all your nerves on fire, all your cells singing.

“Hi,” You don't have the mental capacity to do anything but repeat the word back at him, until desires flood your brain and guide your mouth, “Can I kiss you?”

His pupils widen, mouth quirks. “Always.”

So you do. You smile into his mouth and suck on his lip, hum into his mouth and tangle with his tongue. Your hands are rubbing his shoulders, his arms, his back. They rub along his collarbone and he wiggles closer, small noises escaping into your mouth.

He's rubbing himself on you in a way that says he doesn't even know what he's doing, but your libido sure does. You grab one of his hands – it had been previously clutching the front of you shirt – and entwine your fingers with his. His hand falls easily above his head, and you push them into the bed; he whimpers at this, a sound that practically forces you to drive your hips into his.

He whines your name, breathy and desperate and far too close to the shell of your ear, the warmth maddening. Your hips grind into his again, and he rubs back, friction overtaking your mind. His hands keep a gentle pressure against yours, but it's not enough to even come close to driving you off. Again, he whines under you. His legs spread and you feel the hard length of his magical dick pressing into you as he grinds up, gasping.

A moment of clarity has you stopping. Your movement ceases as he continues to grind into you, face twisted into a pleading, pleasured mess.

“Hey, cutie.” You say, needing to bring him back to clarity before your lust overtakes your common sense.

His flushed face smooths a little. “Yeah?”

“I don't want to go anywhere we haven't been before while you're drunk. Impaired judgment and all that.” You explain, voice soft.

“Oh... uh, yeah. That seems... good.” You feel a distinct emptiness as his dick disperses, and you let go of his hands. They stay there for a second before he moves them, but then they come up and circle around you.

“Cuddles?” You propose.

“Cuddles.” He agrees.

* * *

 

Sans' jackets were big and poofy, and they made him look even smaller than he was, which was already concernedly small. This had the added effect of making him look absolutely adorable, but you figured you were prepared for all the cute he had to throw at you.

You were proved extremely, apologetically wrong when you walk into the kitchen for some three a.m. coffee and find a ball of fluff hopping at the tallest cabinet.

The skeletal legs give away the identity of the fluff, but with a furry hood pulled around his head, you could barely discern him from a sentient cotton ball, a feat made harder by the fact you hadn't slept for a good twenty four hours.

He glances over his shoulder, starting when he sees you. The fluff trails behind as he spins around, eyes wide. “Er, how long have you been there?”

“Long enough. You know I have a stool, right?”

He blushes, a completely expected yet still entirely adorable response. He tugs his hood around his head, an old tick that's getting less and less frequent. “I don't need a stool.”

You don't comment on the incriminating evidence that he did, in fact, need a stool. Instead you quirk up a smile and choose the cutest (and of course, most blush-causing) course of action. “You're right, you don't.” You only get to appreciate his half surprised, half skeptical face for a second before you're spinning him around by the shoulder, his easy compliance speaking worlds to you.

And then you grab under his arms and lift him.

“Hey- no, what-”

“Well? Grab what you were trying to get.” You cut him off, well aware that he'd be much more accepting the less time he had to think about it.

He wiggles in your arms, but, being a skeleton, he was astoundingly light, and therefore, astoundingly easy to carry. He seems to relent, small skeletal hands reaching into the depths of the cupboard to pull out... ketchup.

That was actually extremely expected.

“Why was your ketchup up there?” You question, once he's safely down on the ground, clutching it in small phalanges.

“Papyrus thinks it's a disgusting habit.” He mutters.

“That's... surprisingly mean of him.” You venture.

“His hearts in the right place.” He looks at you sharply, any statement even slightly calling his brother into question considered heresy.

“When is it not?” You smile and he relaxes, proverbial hackles smoothing.

* * *

 

Lucida was on you, kneading her claws into your stomach, and when you go to push her off your fingers touch cloth. One eye is cracked open just the slightest bit so you could understand why you were touching fabric instead of fur, and your answer is...

The cat was wearing a scarf.

Of course.

You roll over, causing her to fall onto the bed, and promptly go back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

“YOU CAN'T CAN SPAGHETTI!” It was a veritable roar, echoing throughout the supermarket and scaring nearby shoppers. You sigh, knowing that this was probably inevitable yet still hoping it was all a dream.

The skelebros were in the next aisle over, and when you turned the corner you almost ran face first into a confused shopper attempting to evacuate the area. They stutter over an apology and dart around you, leaving you in an empty aisle with Papyrus and Sans, the former of which appears to be crying.

“IT'S DISGRACEFUL! NO SPAGHETTI SHOULD HAVE TO LIVE A LIFE TRAPPED IN A CAN, WAITING TO EXPIRE OR BE EATEN! IT'S BARBARIC.”

You sigh. So much for your nice shopping trip. Together, you and Sans console Papyrus, bringing him out to the car where he can mourn in peace. By the time you've bought the food you'd already picked up, he's just sniffling every now and then instead of wailing, which is a win.

* * *

 

Papyrus was knitting another scarf for the cats, because he was Papyrus and that was simply what he did for fun. This meant he didn't want to come with you and Sans to the park, so you promptly scooped the smaller skeleton up and proclaimed it a date.

You were excited to show Sans this park, there was a huge fountain you think he'd enjoy and ducks and geese that were really quite friendly, provided you weren't withholding food from them. Unconsciously, you carried him out to the car, plopping him in the passenger seat and buckling him in. He's blushing and it's the cutest thing ever, and you are just so happy you can be as affectionate as you want to him. So you kiss the top of his skull and then kiss it again for good measure. He's blushing fiercely and it's so stupidly cute you're gonna get stuck kissing him here instead of ever going to the park.

You pull yourself away with an admirable show of self-discipline, and start the drive. Your hand finds his and you hold it the whole way there, teasing him and squeezing it.

When you get there, his eyes go just as wide as you'd hoped at the fountain, and you giggle as he cautiously feeds a goose. The teeth on it's tongue are a bit disconcerting, but Sans does well, and you're filled with overwhelming pride and happiness that you get to be right there with him as he explores the world.

You climb into a tree and drag him up right after you. He looks scared for a moment, but when you tug him back into your lap the tenseness goes away.

It's a perfect date, really, and you look into his eyes and hope for so many more. 

* * *

 

Sans thinks, sometimes.

It's unwanted and unnecessary, but his mind does acrobats and drags him into a dance he's long done with.

He thinks about your life before he met you, and your life if he never did. He thinks about possibilities and logistics and the way you smile like a feral animal when you're perched above him.

Sometimes, he thinks about Frisk.

He tries not to, anymore. Acknowledging the fact that his entire life rests in the palm of a child is... a reality he thought he'd gotten used to.

He thinks, sometimes, that he'd do anything to save this reality. But Frisk is far away, long gone with the humans who had separated them all.

He was almost sure Frisk had been put in a human household, far from even Toriel; it was a surprise that the world hadn't already been scrapped, just from that.

But it kept chugging on, each day coming as sure as the last.

He wasn't going to hope – so he didn't think about it.

* * *

 

You blink bleary eyes, the vague feeling of something being wrong dragging you into the waking world. It was wrong, but not _wrong_ , so you took your time, dreams (something about time running out? A clock larger than your house? Blue people and mute people and.... nonsense.) slipping away, leaving only the soft drag of sleepiness on your muscles.

A few more minutes of rising through the sea of sleep, and you realize what was wrong. You'd fallen asleep curled around a skeleton, and there wasn't one entangled in your arms now.

There wasn't any screaming or yelling, no flashes of magic to be felt, so your heart only sped up a bit; but it was enough for your head to rise from it's place on the pillow.

He's right there, easing your heart back to sleepy thumps. His jacket is zipped all the way up, and he has heavy sweats on, though considering he's perched on the windowsill and the all-encompassing snow has yet to melt, it makes sense.

He doesn't turn to look at you, but he does start talking in a soft voice, one that will put you right back to sleep if you aren't careful. “The stars were always what I craved the most. We had astronomy books, of course, and some movies had snapshots, little glimpses of them. But I always knew what they looked like.”

“They look like your eyes.” It's out of your mouth before you realize. He blinks his stars at you, gently smiles, and turns back to the spread of space dust.

“They look like freedom.” He says, and it's happy and wistful and feels a tad too fragile.

Silence reigns as you look at his silhouette, the stars glowing softly behind him. The white of his bones seems iridescent in this light.

“Do you wanna go stargazing again tomorrow?” You ask, sleep pulling you back.

“That sounds _star_ pendous.”

“That was an awful one.”

You can hear the smile in his voice when he replies “I know.”

* * *

 

So, the next night you, Sans, Papyrus, and the kittens all pile into the car, you at the driver's seat (despite Sans' lessons, his driving was still a bit... eccentric, for long distance trips.). The drive is full of loud conversation and off-key singing, the vast majority of both to be attributed to Papyrus. Sans claimed the backseat for himself (Thankfully, no longer because he thought that was where he was supposed to sit.). He was laying down, probably not asleep but pretending to be with all his might. You say probably not asleep because you doubted sleep was possible within a two mile radius of an excited Papyrus, though he did seem unreasonably comfy. Being small, he fit comfortably in the back, sprawled out languidly. The kittens (cats, now, maybe.) were flung haphazardly on top of him, small motors purring away at the warmth provided.

This time, you were going to a lake about two hours away, up a mountain road you'd be scared to take in your car if you were a normal person. Luckily, you were not what could be defined as 'normal', so when your car inevitably got stuck, you simply started to get out to pry it from the mud and snow.

As soon as your seat belt clicked off, you found the car floating above the mud. This caused a very surreal state of confusion, where you had to jump through a few mental hoops to come to the conclusion that no, your car didn't in fact float.

There was a certain skeleton who could, in fact, make things float, and as you looked behind you saw him still 'asleep', though there was a smug smile stretched across his face. “Thanks.”

He didn't answer, but you didn't care. Papyrus launched right back into his absurdly detailed explanation of how growing your own spices was the only true way to make spaghetti, as the natural flavors of homegrown plants were the only acceptable seasoning for friendship spaghetti.

“We can have a garden?” You suggest, finally catching on that Papyrus might want that. “It should probably be inside, since it's snowy half the year here, but it's not like we don't have the space.”

“HUMAN! HUMAN, OH SWEET HUMAN, HOW MANY OF MY DREAMS WILL YOU MAKE COME TRUE?” The exclamation, though made at a volume you could feel rattle your car, filled you with warmth.

“As many as I can afford, Paps. Which, as long as you don't dream of owning a private jet or living in Bermuda, should be quite a lot.” You grin at him, a wild one with teeth, and he slams his body across the car in what could've loosely been defined as a hug.

It smashes all the air right out of you, and had you been on the highway, it would've almost certainly resulted in a collision with at least one fatality. But as it was, you had been going about 15MPH on a deserted road, and the car rolled to a stop with no damage done.

“THANK YOU HUMAN! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANKYOU THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!!” He was rubbing his face all over yours in a over the top display of affection.

“Yeah Paps, happy to do it.” Your smiles match, warm, toothy grins mirrored over the middle console.

You get stuck twice more, and each time the car levitates right out of it, Sans' sleepy grin looking just a tad triumphant.

When you get there, the lake is uninhabited, exactly what you were hoping for. It's known to your town, certainly, but the drive deters most people, and those who do come are normally looking to splash around in the daytime. Currently, the sun was hanging heavy over purple mountains spread across the horizon. It would be dark soon, but there was just enough light left to set up.

You spread a large blanket across the ground as the kittens prance around, tackling each other in turn and darting around Papyrus as he tries to catch them. They were always good about staying near you, not only because when they wander too far, they magically levitate back.

Sans strolls over and plops a pillow on the blanket, lazily falling over it, the rolling so he was actually facing the sky. The laziness, or as he called it, 'energy conservation' he displays on a day-to-day basis is downright impressive.

Slashes of colors build on each other as the sun drifts below the mountains, and you grab the other blanket and lay it on top of you and Sans as the temperature drops dramatically. The kittens wander over and curl around you, and Papyrus follows, nestling himself under the blanket as well.

The sky fades from a milky purple to navy blue, stars starting to peek out in the coming dark. The moon was a thick sliver, not the most ideal, but better than could really be expected.

Your house would be considered secluded by most, but this lake was miles away from any notable civilization, so when the stars did come out, they coated the sky in a thick blanket. It shimmered and reflected off the lake, creating an eerie, floating feeling. You could almost pretend you were in space, high above the ground, floating in the endless apathy of the Milky Way. Really, you were in a way, the earth forever circling one star in the vastness of millions, but it was so hard to see that while you were curled against Sans, kittens flopped across your stomach and Papyrus's ribcage.

You never really grasped you'd been lonely your whole life, until you realized you weren't anymore.

 

* * *

 

You were as sober as could be, holding yourself above Sans, his body twisted in the cage of your arms. You had a rhythm down, thrusting your hips into his evenly. You wanted desperately to rip all his clothes off and just ravage him, and the noises he was making weren't helping at all. But this was one thing you were absolutely not going to rush.

He met you halfway on your next thrust; his mouth flew open and his eyes twisted shut, and the moan that escaped him was exhilarating. You dipped your head to his neck, mouth finding the vertebrae there and lavishing them with kisses. You didn't stop your rhythm, and were rewarded with little pants interspersed with whimpers. When you nibbled at the space in between two vertebrae, he gasped and his hips met yours with an explosion of pleasure, fraying your control for a second.

Your hand trailed under his jaw as you pulled him in for a kiss. He licked your bottom lip and entwined with your tongue, and when he gasped into your mouth you broke your carefully constructed rhythm, grinding down into him faster and harder than intended. He's shaking, moaning, writhing, and you want nothing more than to take him and make him yours.

And that means you need to stop.

Maybe he sense something in you, some slight hesitation in your body, because his eyes lift into lazy slits and he smiles, a warm one that's not quite as cheek achingly big as his normal one. “We can go farther, this time. If you'd like.”

You dip you head, press soft kisses to his neck. “You sure?”

“ _Yes_.” He sounds sure, breathy and soft and solid. You kiss him up and down and he tangles himself in you, fingers grasping your hair, legs twining around your body.

You press a particularly long kiss to where his pelvis peaks out of his waistband, and he rolls his hips up at you. Your fingers trail along them, tracing patterns.

You tug at his waistband, a question. He pants out a forceful, “ _Yes!_ ”

So you pull his pants down slowly, so slowly. He writhes under you, looking for friction and only finding it in minute amounts, small pieces of pleasure so you could drag this out as long as possible.

His waistband makes the last little inch it takes to free his dick, and you sit and appreciate for perhaps too long. It's definitely more attractive than any real cock you've ever seen, though with it smelling faintly of blueberries and being a bright, glowing blue, it wasn't hard. He'd either been studying real dicks or had some ingrained idea of what the perfect one would be, because it was long and thick, but without looking painful. There were subtle veins running along it, enticing you to lick up them, to see what kind of noises he'd make then.

So you do. You run your tongue up the bottom, then pop your mouth over the head, sucking on it as you swirl your tongue around. You were right, and the noises he made were lovely and haunting, echoing around you in a dark room. A series of moans and sighs, grunts and whimpers, all coming from a small skeleton you realized you adored. Each noise jolted through your veins, urging you to try harder. He was coming undone beneath you, and you don't think you'd ever been a part of anything more exquisite.

And then he climaxes.

It's beautiful. You don't know if you've ever felt more alive.

And then, after tranquil moments of you hugging him and kissing him and praising him, he asks, “Can I return the favor?”

And you might have to rescind your earlier statement.

* * *

 

It started with oregano, which was entirely expected by everyone. It was a small sprout, in a little plastic pot. Surrounding it were more luscious counterparts, but in another unsurprising move, Papyrus grabbed the smallest one and held it lovingly to his face.

The worker who'd been showing you around the nursery smiled wide at the sight, then caught your stare and hid her face. Since she was of the minority who welcomed huge, childlike skeletons with open arms, you sidled up to her and spoke softly to the curls that were hiding her face.

“He's adorable, isn't he?” Her eye were a wide amber when they glanced up at you in surprise, and the rosy blush across her cheeks made you think of summer. It was fitting, for someone like this to work in a nursery.

Thin lips broke into a smile as she agreed, and you both watched as the huge skeleton proclaimed his undying love to the plant, which he seemed to have already named. Otis wasn't really what you would've picked, but really, you probably wouldn't have named it in the first place.

The girl kept her smile up while you handed over the money for Otis, and you decided you liked her.

This proved useful, because in the next few weeks, you would be seeing her a lot.

What started as a small oregano plant in a little plastic pot turned into an entire room filled to the brim with leaves, flowers, and produce. Otis had a special spot on the window ledge, where he was growing ridiculously fast, already a veritable bush.

Each time you returned, the girl was sunny and bright, and she called your names easily. She told you to call her Jess, and when you once said Jessica, she giggle her easy giggle and replied “Jessamine, actually. It's a type of Jasmine.”

“That's fitting.” She smiled and nodded.

“I get that a lot.”

Papyrus brought up his pick of the day, a tree-looking thing.

“Ah, I was hoping it would be you who grabbed that!” Jess exclaims, ringing it up. You swipe you card, only glancing at the price out of curiosity. It was never all that expensive, though this was one of the more pricey ones.

“Starfruit.” Jessamine says, and you glance up at her. “It's a starfruit bush. They're my favorite.” She smiles radiantly.

The next week, when you come in, Papyrus is carrying a starfruit. “FLOWER HUMAN!” Jessamine appears from the back, unperturbed at Papyrus's volume after so long. “I HAVE BROUGHT A GIFT FOR YOU.”

Her mouth drops open before stretching into a grin, and it's as sincere as it could be when she says “Papyrus, thank you. This is... Amazing.” She takes it gently, like it could break with the slightest wrong movement. “It's crazy that you made it fruit so quick... Just, wow. Thank you so much.” When she grins it's all pearly white teeth and chubby pink cheeks.

“IT'S THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP!” She doesn't even blink at this exclamation, just nods and smiles and proceeds to show Papyrus the new arrivals.

* * *

 

It was a strange and vague occurrence when you realize Christmas was nearing again. Sans used his laptop every day, he was more careful with it than anything else (Besides Papyrus, but being careful with a huge sentient skeleton and being careful with a thin piece of machinery are different beasts entirely.). While this filled you with fluffy feelings and happy thoughts, it did mean it would be hard to one-up it. Which you really, really wanted to do.

Getting Papyrus a gift was easier. While you objectively knew Sans better, Papyrus was no enigma in what he wanted. You were going to turn the room adjacent to his garden into another room for him to use, clearing it out and setting up lights and platforms for his precious plants to reside on. It was simple and a little selfish, because ever since Papyrus had started gardening, the cuisine he made you and Sans had increased in quality ten-fold. You hadn't even realized how much better home-grown food was, but now that you had tasted the difference, you weren't planning on going back.

You browse through amazon, looking at all the things you could have delivered to your doorstep, but none of them stood out, really.

You closed your laptop, sighing.

You had time.

* * *

 

You pounce on Sans, pinning his hands over his head and cradling his body so the impact is lessened. “Got you.” It's a throaty purr, and he shivers delightfully under you. It's a game of tag, really, but you grind your body down into his anyway, no care for the rules that state you should start running, letting him chase you. Instead, you press into him, pin him, because he's your catch and you've got him caught so _delightfully._ He squirms and shakes under you, and when you breathe out a heaving “ _ **Mine**_.” He nods and splutters so many 'yes's' you wonder why you hadn't done this sooner.

* * *

 

Papyrus is wearing a sombrero. You aren't sure, particularly, where he would've gotten this sombrero because you didn't own one, and you've never seen him buy it. This wasn't the most confusing thing about Papyrus by far though, so it was easy to accept that he was wearing a sombrero after the initial seconds of 'why' and 'how'.

He was, unsurprisingly, in the kitchen. The fact he was wearing a sombrero in the kitchen was enough to make your stomach rumble. There had been a tragic dearth of Mexican food in your life as of late, and while him wearing a sombrero didn't necessarily mean he had stumbled across a Mexican recipe he wanted to try, it was a near thing. So you were unsurprised and delighted when you walked closer and there were tortillas laid out on the counter, bowls of ingredients lined up beside them.

“HUMAN!!” Papyrus bellows when he notices you, his excitement obvious by how the windows shake when he yells. “I HAVE FOUND AN _AMAZING_ NEW FOOD!” He's practically squealing, though you suppose if you had just stumbled across the wonders of Mexican food, you would be squealing as well. “IT IS CALLED...” He spins around, grabs something off the counter, and presents it to you much as a proud father would. “A TACO!”.

It was indeed a taco, and a very good one at that. Sans appears soon after you start digging into one, undoubtedly because his food sensors had started going off. You sneak bites to the cats and joke with Sans and Papyrus; and everything is right with the world.

 

* * *

 

You carry Sans to bed more than he probably would've liked, but he always falls asleep in unfortunate places. Today, he had chosen the fridge, which you could only assume happened because he was tired and hungry, and sleep won out at the worst possible time.

He clings to you when you carry him, small hands balled in your shirt, and it was truly the most adorable thing. He doesn't stop clinging even as you lay him in bed, and it really couldn't be blamed on you that you ended up sleeping beside him, because no one has a right to be that cute.

* * *

 

Papyrus was clutching his chicken wing like it was about to fly away, which didn't make sense on any level because chickens don't fly and dead chickens certainly don't. His eyes glanced around suspiciously before landing back on the food in his hand, the squinted sockets displaying the utmost distrust.

“Papyrus..” You begin, concerned about this change of behavior.

“THIS HAS A _BONE_ IN IT.” He explains without further prompting. Which was... concerning. You turn to Sans, who also has a chicken wing in his hand and seems to be entirely unconcerned about it. All that flashes through your head was the time they realized humans have skeletons in them and what a fiasco it was, and you immediately regret getting KFC.

“Urm, well, we can go get McDonalds?” You offer, hoping you hadn't offended him by getting what could be described as a distant cousin for him to eat.

“NO, WE MUST TRAVEL TO THE ABODE WITH QUICKNESS!” That had indeed been where you were headed, but hearing Papyrus say it has to happen quick was... a little concerning.

“Uh?” You try, unsure how to even word a question that would get you the answer you want.

“He's worried about Annoying Dog.” Sans offers before ripping into his chicken wing.

“Oh?” You say, hoping he'll continue talking because that certainly wasn't enough to explain anything.

“It's just one of our pals from the underground, they were always stealing Pap's bone attacks.” Sans shrugs and keeps eating, but it sounded like there was a note of longing in his voice.

“Oh... okay.” You knew Sans had no idea where all his friends from the underground had been located, but you hadn't really thought about how much he must miss them.

Maybe, just maybe, one day you could find them. Maybe show him the monster/human couples you had looked up that one time, see if any of them were old acquaintances.

Once you were home, Papyrus ate his chicken wing with vigor, and did something with the bone that you were unsure of. You didn't really feel like it was necessary to ask, so you just ate your own and threw your bones in the trash, like a normal human.

 

* * *

 

_Pound_

_**Pound** _

_**POUND** _

_ **P O U N D** _

 

You roll over, your head killing you. It's never pounded this hard, and your whole body feels like mush inside a skin sack. The pounding continues, increasing in volume as your stomach churns. Everything was spinning, and it occurred to you that not only were you as hungover as you've ever been, but you were decidedly still drunk. It was not a good combination.

And the pounding wouldn't _stop._

You knew you needed water, logically, but actually getting up sounded like the worst thing in the whole world. You chance a glance around the room, groaning when light burns your corneas. You were definitely alone, which negated the idea of making someone else get water for you.

The pounding continues as you roll onto the floor, groaning for a second as it presses at your body. It's cool, and you rest your cheek against it, frowning as it slowly turns warm.

You drag yourself to your feet, tilting as the world spins. You don't fall, but it's a near thing.

Two steps has you vomiting.

Maybe you should lay off on drinking for a while.

The pounding increases in volume as you drink water, glancing over the pile of puke that's only half in the trash can. You're going to have to fix that.

Eventually.

It's only at the end of the first glass of water that you realize something is wrong with the pounding, insomuch as it's not coming from your head.

No one's knocked on your door for years, and now's a shitty time for them to start.

You stalk over to where it's visibly shaking, glowering as though whoever was on the other side could feel your displeasure.

And then you open it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There aren't really excuses for this. Basically life caught me up in it's twists and turns and fanfiction was forced to take a backseat. I tried to get in as many of your suggestions as possible, but some wouldn't work with the storyline and other I just couldn't get to fit like I wanted. I'm sorry if I didn't take your ideas, and I hope you can enjoy this chapter anyway. It was hard for me to write and I'm honestly quite unhappy with it, but I don't think it will ever be perfect the way I was wishing it would be these past months.  
> Please, leave a comment if you have the time. I appreciate them immensely and reply to every one (Though I'm getting to the ones last chapter after I post this, so if I haven't replied yet, don't worry)
> 
> Also, the plot starts now. If you're looking for pure fluff, now might be the time to abandon ship


	19. Failures in Falling

There is a blue person on your doorstep, and you vaguely remember learning that alcohol withdrawals can cause hallucinations.

They look up, seemingly in slow motion, and you take in the glint of what appears to be an entire mouth of canines, lips stretched too-wide around them, presenting their points. The world is tilting slowly, dreamily, and your eyes trace over the long red hair held high on this persons head, the rippling muscles in their arms. They look unreal, all primary colors and raw strength.

And then the canines are bared in a growl, and a decidedly feminine voice grounds out, “ _You_.”

And then she's lunging at you. Your brain catches up right on time, throwing you to the side as she slams past you, sprawling across the floor of your entryway. She's up in record time, and this time when she lunges she grabs your wrist hard as you dodge, attempting to throw you. It's an easy grab to break, flipping your wrist to throw her forward, but she snaps her hand back and rolls into a standing position. She looks feral, dangerous.

It's about then that your brain chugs to the conclusion that yes, you were definitely fighting a weird blue thing that showed up on your doorstep, and if it was an alcohol induced hallucination it was a damn realistic one.

She grunts, then aims a punch for your face that you sidestep. This seems to matter none to her as she just continues to barrel straight into you, knocking you down. The momentum is perfect to flip her over, and you hear the air as it gets knocked out of her, but then she's up again, throwing you away from her so that your back slams against the wall. It's going to bruise, but little details like that are insignificant right now.

“Who the fuck are you?” You finally ask as she glares at you. She jabs at you instead of answering, then comes in for an uppercut. It catches you off guard, driving into your stomach hard, and you throw up on her.

 

Really, who uppercuts a hungover person?

 

She lets out a screech, something unholy and grating while you try to recover, magic sweeping in to soothe your stomach.

And then, you cock your fist and punch her in the face. It throws her back, she slams against the wall with a painful-sounding thump, an angry noise wheezing out of her. She recovers quickly, lunging for you and managing to kick out your leg when you dodge. You're falling, but you twist and catch her legs with yours, sending you both to the ground. You grapple; her strength is impressive, but when you pour magic into your muscles, you're the clear winner. She seems to realize this too, and her struggle ceases, sending you careening forward when the resistance ends.

You only get a shout as warning before her head is slamming into yours, effectively dazing you.

“UNDYNE!!” The screech is at a volume you're sure only Papyrus can achieve, and you sigh in relief. You had no idea what 'undyne' meant, but the blue girl under you (Who smells vaguely like fish and appears to have gills, you note) freezes and rolls out of your unresistant arms immediately.

“PAPYRUS!” She yells, practically flying into his arms. He stumbles back, a huge smile spreading his face as he returns her hug.

 

Oh.

 

Well.

 

Really, when a blue person showed up at your doorstep, you should've realized it was a monster. Your head swims, the brutal headbutt mixing with your hangover, and you sway. A shuffle from the staircase alerts you to the presence of Sans, his slippered feet quiet. He looks at you, then looks away, too quickly for comfort, none of the warmth you normally see in his gaze present.

There are splashes of puke on you; a dribble of blood leaving your nose to pool in your mouth and you're certain you looked every bit as sick as you felt, but he's looked at you in worse states with more affection.

You want to go to him, but he's speaking, careful voice a contrast to the screeches of the other two monsters. “Undyne.” He pauses for a second, face contorting. It settles into the saddest smile you've ever seen from him, which is no small feat, and he continues, “I thought I'd never see you again.”

She grins up at him, mouth spreading so impossibly wide. The canines weren't any less threatening when they were bared in good cheer. “You can't get rid of me that easy.”

“Of course.” He looks uncomfortable, or maybe just not relaxed like he was with you. He looks like he did months ago, when tension coated his bones and pooled in his eye sockets, before you'd teased the kind, smart, punmaster out of him. “How did you find us though?” His tone is careful. Too careful.

“Not easily, that's for sure.” Her gaze slides to you, the slits of her pupils disconcerting. “I was certain you were being held hostage, when I finally caught word you were living with a mage.” She's unblinking, staring.. Perhaps this was when you were supposed to defend yourself, but you felt no real drive to. Blood continued it's trickle down your face, pooling in your mouth, dripping down your chin. A puddle was forming. She turned away after a moment. “That, plus the fact no one had heard from you since we were all separated...”

She trails off, looking uncertainly at the skeletons in the room. There was a question there, but no one answered her.

Sans' face is set, his jaw clenched. You wanted to reach out, smooth away the energy building in him, but he was on the other side of the room and you didn't feel like you could gracefully insert yourself by him.

Instead of answering the implied question, Sans returns one of his own. “That's not the only reason you came, is it?” He sounds tired, a drawl that you haven't heard for a very long time. You wonder if he already knew the answer. Wondered if he'd known she'd be coming. Seeds of distrust fill you, sprouting even as you want them to stop. He seems so unaffected, so serene even after one of his old friends had come to your house and attacked you...

Undyne narrows her eyes, the yellow surrounding her pupils standing out garishly against her blue skin. “No.” She sighs, and it seems like more than just air leaves her body. “You need to come with me - “ She twists, fixes you with an untrustworthy stare you're getting used to. “There's a war.”

The words tug at you, deja vu swelling up, unidentifiable in the moment. That feeling is pushed away, quickly, because she's telling Sans to...

She's telling Sans to _leave_.

She's telling Sans to fight a war.

“ _ **No**_.” It's harsh leaving your lips, rugged and putrid. The world is spinning, worse than before. Worse than the hangover can account for, worse than you can handle. You feel empty, nauseous, your ribs are tight around the void in your core. “ _ **No**_.” You lurch forward while saying it. Your gaze tunnels, locks on Sans. He looks sad, so sad. You need to get him out of here, to somewhere else, somewhere you can stay with him forever, and there will be no wars and no sadness, just you and him and endless warmth and love. “ _ **No.**_ ” It's the only word that makes sense, the only way to describe your feelings. They roar inside of you, twist your intestines, cut off your circulation. Sans is so far away, his eyes wide, his face scared, and he's yours. You need to protect what's yours, need to save him and make it safe for him -

And then, there's pain.

 

* * *

 

You wake up to streaming sunlight in your face and a throbbing in your head.

 

You know, instinctively, that they are gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter is extremely short because I really wanted to break it up like this  
> So  
> There we go! The start of the plot, and the appearance of another monster, something i've been asked about many a time. Did anyone guess who it was going to be beforehand?  
> Also, I got some absolutely lovely and impressive fanart you can admire with the link!\  
> http://fakeivy1412.tumblr.com/post/157750690566/even-completely-covering-himself-he-was-still-so


	20. There Are Worse Things, But We've Never Seen Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING!! - triggers after the $$$  
> Please read this if you have triggers, because this is a big and common one. However, this is very intense spoilers, so if you don't have triggers I would recommend not reading this  
> $$$  
> In this chapter there is: attempted suicide (If this is your only trigger, stop reading at the @@@, otherwise maybe don't even read this chapter) Vivisection???? Parental abuse, substance abuse, the start of insanity, and generally a lot of bad things

The world spun more than it didn't, now.

You woke sprawled on the couch, and you stayed there. Probably for hours – but it felt like days, weeks, months. The light filtered away, came back again. You closed your eyes and opened them, reliving moments in painful clarity – this couch had been a home for so much affection.

You didn't move, barely breathed. When you woke up, it would be a dream. Sans would comfort you, and care, and he'd whisper promises in your ears that you could believe. If you could just stay here long enough, breathe shallowly enough, fade from this existence enough – you'd wake up.

You didn't wake up.

The silence stretched.

Your arms and legs laid heavy on the couch. They ached, the lack of movement curling around them in a painful embrace. Your eyes dried out, unable to cry, to release any of the emotions that swirled inside you. Your tongue was thick, heavy in your mouth. Like a slug. It tasted like one, too, all goo and sour.

 

You stayed.

 

The line was drawn when you had to pee so much it was unbearable, and your legs shook like a fawn's when they carried you to the bathroom. You looked in the mirror, touched your hair. Thought about Sans.

Staunchly did not think about Sans.

Aimlessly, you wandered the house. He might still be somewhere (He wasn't). He might be hiding in the closet, under the sink, out in the garden (He wasn't). He might be playing a prank, a particularly mean one, and he'll jump out and yell, “Gotcha!” and you'll laugh and laugh and maybe cry. (He wasn't)

You crawled into your room, roaming along the floor like a deranged animal. It was empty, except for a note placed perfectly centered on your pillow.

You stared at it like it would attack you.

The white paper looked awful in the dim light, like something glowing and alive. Like snow. Like Sans' eyes.

You wanted to rip it to shreds.

You see your hand grab it before you realize that you are, and it's in this strange, disassociated state that you read it. Because that's what you do with notes, no matter how much you want to burn them, destroy them, rip and tear at them until there's nothing left but dust.

 

_I am so sorry._

_I love you._

  * _Sans_




 

You stare at it, and think this might be the cruelest thing you've ever endured.

The paper is floating away, dreamily. You hadn't realized you dropped it. The room spins, flickers in and out.

 

This is -

 

This is pure cruelty.

 

Crueler than long nights splayed under bright lights, crueler than the way your parents words had sunk more and more into gibberish. Crueler than the whole town, who all thought of the idea of you and not you. Crueler than a war that you were forced on the opposite side of, from birthright.

You're down the stairs, suddenly. You're in no state to be going out – but you will, anyway. You don't know what else you could possibly do with this feeling. You grab at your cabinets, pull out a bottle. At least you're consistent, with your problem-solving methods.

You're in town, then. Old haunts loom at you, hulking around a street that was too thin and littered with cracks, potholes, and, well, actual litter. The buildings curl into the sky, shudder with bass like something living. It's been a while – you haven't been here since the skelebros entered your life, hadn't even really _thought_ about it. The knot in your throat pushes you forward. The drink in your pocket soothes your nerves.

You forget about skulls and eyelights. You forget about glowing blue magic, a blue soul, a blue life. You forget, and forget, and forget.

When you wake up, it's somewhere you've never been before. Three other people are tangled with you, on the floor of a room that has seen better days. The carpet smells like smoke and cat litter. You leave, and they don't wake up.

* * *

 

Time passes. Most likely, anyway. Your sense of it is nonexistent now, and you stay up for days straight then sleep for weeks. The couch is your new bed, your room untouched since you found the note. It was still there, probably, and you didn't want to see it.

You didn't really want to see the couch either.

You didn't want to see anything, in fact, so you got so smashed the world spun before you, tilting and tipping and swinging endlessly from day to night to day to night...

You meet people and remember none of their names. People fear you, or love you, or do the strangest combination of both. You don't feel much of anything for yourself, and it shows in the way your clothes hang off of you.

You're practically a skeleton yourself, now.

The thought makes you laugh and laugh and laugh. It sounds retched, echoing through the air. Other people laugh too, all squeaky and grating, and the low hum of a laugh you'll never hear again swims through your brain. You drink more, until it's gone. Static pulses at the edge of your vision.

“W **hat** _ **a**_ s0rr _y_ _ **s**_ **tatE**.” The words are _wrong,_ startling you even blackout drunk. Everything about them screams bad/off/terrible/ _run_ and you don't. The intonation switches erratically, the volume changing just as often.

There's no one there.

You forget.

But slowly, slowly, you start to notice the darkness.

* * *

 

People give you things, and you take them easily. They hurt, sometimes, your stomach twisting and writhing against the foreign substances. You can't bring yourself to care, but that's been the theme for so long you wonder if it will come full circle.

You're laying on the floor of your bathroom, somehow home. You end up there sometimes. Sometimes you stay. Sometimes, you don't glimpse it for days, weeks, _months._

Now, there's vomit spread across it, and you wonder how you could have ever fallen into such a sorry state. But it's a rhetorical question, because the answer burns in their absence and you hadn't had nearly enough time. And now Sans, small and fragile, was out fighting a war. You clench your fist. He was strong, but easily broken. A glass cannon. Your teeth grind and it's far too loud in the dead silence. You try not to think about Sans. Sans and his sweet smiles, Sans and the smiles that were so brittle you were sure his teeth would crack. Sans and the cracks already in his soul, the cracks you could never quite forget about.

Sans, in all his glorious strength.

Sans, in all his glorious weakness.

 

You refuse to hold out hope that you would see him again.

 

The house held itself strong around you, as you came apart. It was always quiet now, something you'd never noticed before them but had been doomed to after.

The cats were gone as well, either taken by them or disappeared when it became obvious you were in no state to take care of them. You felt bad about that, just as you felt bad about Papyrus's steadily wilting garden. You felt bad for not chasing after them, and you felt bad for even considering doing that. They'd made their choice, and you would respect it.

* * *

 

That doesn't mean you didn't scour google, searching every possible combination of 'war' 'humans' 'monsters' 'skeletons' and 'mages' you could possibly think of.

There was nothing.

There was absolutely, completely, nothing.

* * *

 

Someone knocks at your door, and you almost scream. It's the first time since...

You fling it open, slamming it so it bounces back. The men outside are hulking, the two of their bodies effectively blocking any glimpse of the forest beyond your house. You carefully make eye contact, face tensing.

“What do you want?” Your voice sounds strange to you ears; you haven't heard it somewhere this silent since... well. Everything comes back to Sans, doesn't it?

“We think you know some things about our missing friend.” His voice is deep, and it is meant to be intimidating. It sounds too normal compared to the rasp that had exited your throat though, and the easy knowledge you could take them both sits on your collarbone.

They shift uneasily when you straighten. Your full height is nothing compared to theirs, but magic was nigh insurmountable. The one who hadn't spoke holds up his phone, a vaguely familiar face on it. You were repulsed immediately, then figure out why.

His eyes were blue, so impossibly blue, and you'd looked into them as you killed him.

You grin at the men, feel it splitting your face into something terrible. The one holding the phone steps back. “I've never seen him before in my life.”

It's a lie. They both know it, you think, staring at them with scrunched eyes and a wild smile.

“I don-”

You cut him off, “I suggest you leave now, before I get... annoyed.”

They look at each other, the one who held up the phone steps back. The other steps forward, a move you copy. You're chest to chest, looking up at him. He's impassive, but you raise an eyebrow and his face twitches.

“Then we need to talk to that... skeleton, that lives here.”

Your throat clenches, heart shuddering. “No skeleton lives here.”

He might've mistaken the sadness in your voice for a lie, because a meaty hand is coming up to clasp at your shoulder and he's yelling, “You're lyi-”

And then you're pulling your magic out, dusty from disuse. It flows freely, washing over the man in front of you. His hand stills midair, inches from your shoulder.

He chokes.

Then, they both run.

You watch their car as it speeds down the hill, sighing.

“A d _ist_ _ **in**_ **c** t _La_ _c_ k of ele **ga** _ **N**_ _ce_.” The voice is warped and wrong, coming from everywhere at once. You whip around, ready to fight.

There's no one there.

This time, you don't forget.

* * *

 

You never play music in the house; the silence that blankets it is part of your mourning, or whatever this extended apathy towards your own existence is. It's a stark and intentional contrast to the thudding bass that vibrates your ribcage in the haunts you frequent.

You need the silence, you think. Just as much as you need the music that's so loud you can't think, can barely breathe.

But neither are helping.

You thrust your face up, make eye contact with your reflection. Nothing swims through the background, but it will, it will. You can't tell if it's the force of your conviction that makes it happen, a placebo, but something dark wriggles in the corner and then it's gone.

Your face is pale and gaunt.

_Like father like daughter_

* * *

 

“I see him, I see him, don't you see him? Finally, finally, finallyfinalllyy.” He trails off into a low mumble, maybe words, if you tried hard enough. You weren't going to.

But then you were grabbed, and you had to listen. Listen, or fight, but...

Well, blood runs deep, and the man was your father, even when you really, really wished he wasn't. Even when he loomed over you, when you couldn't move, when everything hurt. Even when he presented you the unfortunate sight of your innards, the things pumping and writhing in a misguided attempt to keep you alive.

So you're pliant in his hands as he mumbles, “I knew I wasn't going crazy, I knew he was real, he's here and he'srealandI-I am NOT CRAZY.”

His breath reeks, promises of many days without brushing. You don't bother to tell him he's way past conventional crazy, far past any recognizable markers of the descent into madness.

He lets you go then. You feel like a wary animal, glancing at him as he staggers away, fixes on a point at the wall. Syllables exit his lips, only a few recognizable.

And then – then you feel like you do, maybe. See what it is he's seeing. The space he's fixed on ripples, flits with flashes of a black too deep to be real.

And then it's surging towards you, taking shape, forming something, something; you try to run but you can't, you simply won't move.

You gasp as it envelopes you, a face displayed in ghastly white the last thing you see before you...

Wake up.

Of course.

Your dad was long gone.

You pretend that you're not crying, and since no one else is there, it even works.

 

* * *

 

You hadn't _really_ thought about your parents in years. It was easier not to.

But now, they clouded your mind just as much as the alcohol. Just as much as the insanity that seemed to pull farther into your vision everyday, just as much as the drugs that didn't really make it go away, not really.

You didn't really know what to do.

You hadn't actually known what to do for a very long time.

The tangle of your memories involving your parents were.. complicated. They got less so, as the years moved on, but in the beginning....

Your very first memory is spilling juice across the floor, the deep color spreading thickly over white tiles. And your dad had comforted you, talked about mistakes. _Things happen, you just have to accept it and work on fixing it._ You had felt so comforted. Warmth blooming in your rib cage, love flowing through your veins.

Your second memory was being cut open. The clack-clack-clack of your mom typing in the corner, the bitter taste of whatever he had given you beforehand. The sour smell of anesthetic, and the tug informing you that your internal organs were much less internal than they should be.

“Necessary.” It was the only word you remember of that day. Necessary.

You found it hard to believe.

Now, with years more experience under your belt, you understood they had been going crazy long before they talked to the walls. Sane people didn't cut open their own children while they said they loved them.

This realization promotes others, and...

Maybe you'd been crazy long before you started talking to the walls as well.

* * *

 

Sans hadn't been some long fever dream... But the fact that you even need to convince yourself of that spoke volumes.

He stayed, in cracks and crevices of your house. The twelve ketchup containers in your cupboard. The pillows in your backseat for when he drove. The 'recently played' tab, showing star shows and comedians.

Sans had been real, had been here. You didn't just develop a love of ketchup and comedy.

But you sometimes doubt it. Sometimes you wanted to, because he having been here means that yes, he really did leave.

Everyone had left, in the end.

 

* * *

@@@

 

It's a slow, creeping realization, but one morning you wake up and think this: you don't want to be alive anymore.

It's not some big impulse, not a frantic spiral as most things have been, recently. It's just a simple idea, but it proves persistent.

Because you weren't happy, and you couldn't see yourself ever being happy again.

You were going crazy, could feel it coming for you more and more every day, and you didn't want to wait until you were lost to it.

You didn't want to live out the rest of your life like this, so you were going to cut it short, and it would be – fine, probably.

You'd never given too much thought to what comes after, but you hoped it was nothing. You just wanted nothing.

The darkness swirls around your legs as you grab a pill bottle – heavy stuff, sleepy stuff. It says right on it that you shouldn't mix it with alcohol.

You have really nice tequila, were saving it for something special, like... like Sans getting his license, or maybe in the afterglow of... the first time.

But it seemed like this would be the last important event of your life, so might as well end it with style.

You cross your legs on the bathroom floor, take a moment to look around. The darkness is frantic, swirling in the corners and around your legs. You couldn't feel it, but you saw it as clearly as you saw anything. Your parents had chattered on and on about it, and now you could see why. It was thick and foreboding and so, so dark.

It blanketed your hand as you tried to open the pill bottle, making it... more difficult, and quite a bit stranger. It thrashed around you, twirled up your arms, and if you hadn't been so sure it was all in your head you would be terrified.

As it was, you were... disconcerted.

The pill bottle finally releases it's lid, and you bring it to your lips, thinking belatedly that you had nothing but the tequila to wash them down. The sink was right there, but, well, you'd committed and your legs might maybe be shaking so you stay on the floor.

“NO!” It echoes as the first smooth pill touches your lips, and you _shriek_. Because this was your house and there was no one, _no one,_ here. Pills scatter through the air, seem to float like snowflakes. The darkness is writhing, floating, forming, and it rushes at you, terrible and and fast and so, so, dark.

And then, suspended in the air in front of you, is a face.

 

“No.”

 

 

 


	21. Living With Sentient Darkness: The New Hit Reality TV Show!

The moment didn't last.

 

It had felt endlessly suspended, in the vastness of life. The kind of moment where everything either sticks and stays or comes crashing down.

Neither of those things happened.

What did happen was pain, ripping through your ribs, shooting down your spine. The black was a thrashing sea around you; everything so, so, dark. It was loud like roaring water, like an infestation of cicadas – relentless and crashing, beating down on you even as you struggled to be anywhere else.

It was so loud you couldn't even hear if you were screaming.

You think you were, though.

 

It _hurt._

* * *

The world was a blur of grays. Your first instinct was to rub at your mouth, because you've felt like this before and it was always accompanied by your innards leaking out. Your fingers come away clean, no thick stickiness to show the extent of your injuries, but you could feel them. Torn places inside you, broken brittle things stabbing out from where they'd shattered.

 

And they _**hurt**_ _._

* * *

 

Your vision focused more, this time. You still hurt, every breath sending shocks of agony through your body, but it was more manageable. Blurry shapes coalesced to form the ground, the same off-white tile that had been there throughout your life. A pill sat on it, and you watched as darkness flitted in and covered it. It was just a tiny wisp, barely enough.

With tremendous effort, you heave yourself up. There's a lot less darkness now, but what there is swirls around your face. You breathe in, out. Again. You can't quite stop the trembling of your fingers – they flutter against the ground. But you rally, like you always have. “Who the **FUCK** are you!?” It hurts to yell that loud, but it's worth it because you might've cried otherwise. The darkness pauses, swirls around for a second, loops around in hard lines. It takes a moment, but you see familiarity and realize it's spelling out... something. You watch as it ends and just swirls in front of you. “I... didn't catch that.” It swirls tighter, before returning to the uniform lines.

**F R I E N D**

You glare as the 'd' fades. “ _No_. I don't believe that.” The darkness lashes, before curling around letters again.

**S A V E D L I F E**

A low growl fills the air, and it takes a second before you realize it's you. “It's less of a favor when I was the one trying to end it.” The darkness shoots up at you, and you rush forward to meet it, teeth bared. But it's not real and it's not there, so you don't feel a single thing when it hits you. And then you're alone again.

You take a deep breath, and it _hurts._

You've spent a lot of time sleeping on floors recently, so you suppose a little more wouldn't hurt.

* * *

 

You don't remember your dreams, but blood and fire weigh heavily on your mind when you wake up. Groggily, you slurp up some sink water, wincing when swallowing hurts. Your gaze darts around the room, locates the darkness shifting in the corners. You studiously ignore it.

But, other than ignoring the stupid, somehow sentient darkness... You didn't really know what to do. The thing with killing yourself is that you don't have to plan for _after,_ and now that you're here, you aren't quite sure what to do with it.

You flop down on the floor again, stretch out your back harder than was probably healthy. The darkness swims into your vision, starts the steady lines that you know means it's 'talking'. You look away. It swirls into your vision again, trying once more to communicate. You resolutely stare anywhere else. It doesn't seem fazed.

Finally, you lash out, arm supercharged with magic and ready to rip this darkness to shreds, but you fly through it and crumple painfully against the wall. Right. You'd never been able to touch it before, so why should you be able to now?

When you turn around, the darkness is vibrating, and it feels suspiciously like you're being laughed at.

“Fuck you!” Your agitation shows in your magic, rippling from your body in iridescent waves. The darkness just 'laughs' harder, and you turn away, so unimaginably _pissed._

You manage to make it outside before _roaring,_ the sound echoing through empty forests. Your magic practically drowns you as it surges forward, thick and powerful. It had been gathering dust for far too long.

When you're done, the line of trees has been moved back by more than a few feet, cracked earth and debris replacing what had been a forest.

Your eyes rake over it, taking pleasure in your handiwork, but then the ground is very close and you were much less upright then you'd like to be. Aches rush in, tugging at the edges of every muscle, and you groan. You were obviously out of shape, but you supposed months of substance abuse would do that. It was nothing you hadn't brought upon yourself.

While your pride demands you don't acknowledge it, your walk back to the house would be much better described as a hobble. You down water once you're inside, straight from the sink. A tired glance around reveals your kitchen in disarray, empty – and half-empty – bottles were littered across every horizontal surface, and some of the fast food seemed to be growing mold more sentient than you were really comfortable with.

You do what is obviously the best option in this situation, and turn away.

The couch isn't inviting, per se, but what it lacks in comfort you make up for with exhaustion.

Your sleep is deep, dreamless black.

* * *

 

The darkness is still there when you wake up the next day, swirling and turning at the edges of your vision. It looks like there's more of it, which is unsurprising yet still disconcerting.

Before, it had built up and up to the climax that was that face, so it seemed to be following that pattern again. You... didn't really want to wait around to see what it would do this time.

You didn't exactly know how you were going to stop that, but knowing you wanted to was a start. You couldn't imagine getting help from anyone for this particular problem, considering you had thought (still think?) you were absolutely loony and were sure anyone else would as well.

So you were going to deal with it yourself. Not a problem, you were used to it.

What you weren't used to is problems like this, so undefined and unable to be solved with violence.

The darkness flitted around, and you considered it. At least it had stopped trying to talk to you.

Staring intently at it didn't actually solve any problems. In fact, it gave you a headache. You glance away and bite your lip, gnawing till it bleeds, which wasn't very long with how chapped they were.

Since you weren't _actually_ crazy, the taste of blood was kind of repulsive, and it prompted you to get some water. In a glass this time, because you couldn't justify drinking out of the sink when you were both uninjured and sober. The darkness trailed after you like a lost puppy, and you staunchly looked away.

Light streamed in glowing slants from your kitchen window. It wasn't the crystalline landscape you generally saw when you looked out your window, which meant... Well, it meant it was summer. Late summer. That was... Something you should've noticed earlier, really.

Well.

You wondered what else you had missed during... whatever that was. Drug binge. Existential crisis. Pure stupidity.

* * *

 

The days continued, like that. You picked up a little, cried a lot (Not as much as before. A lot, though.) and googled different variations of 'sentient darkness and how to get rid of it'.

It was... Something. Not normal, particularly, and not good either. But you adapted and eventually, it was a routine. A better one than 'get as fucked up as possible'.

The darkness gained size, ominously trailing you wherever you went.

And then, one day, it talked to you.

“ **Y** o _U_ FoO _ **LiS**_ h LittL _ **E GirL**_.”

It really did not get better from there.

* * *

 

After some screaming and cussing, you've calmed down enough to talk to the darkness. Which, really, you probably should've done in the first place. “Who the _fuck_ are you and why the absolute _ **fuck**_ are you following me!?” Well, you said you'd calmed down _enough_ – not entirely.

“Y _ **o**_ u _alw_ **ay** S we **re** inSol **e** **N** **t.** ”

You'd probably be much more calm if the stupid bullshit darkness didn't insult you every time you spoke. You voice that opinion, going shrill at the end, but all you get in response is a chuckle. This, of course, infuriates you more.

You decide to end the cycle, storming out of your own house like you didn't even belong there.

A few tree's lives end decidedly sooner than they otherwise would have, and you don't particularly feel _good_ , but you don't start yelling immediately when you walk back into the house.

“Okay.” It leaves you in a gust of air, and you straighten your spine with it. “Okay, who are you?”

“ **I'M** A f _ **ri**_ _End_.” Instantly, you're agitated again. Whoever the fuck, whatever the fuck this thing is, it somehow pulls the most infuriating smirk out of it's ass. “ **i'm GaS** _teR._ ”

It's – Gaster's – voice goes high and squeaky when he spits out his name, a jarring sound that makes you clench your teeth. His smile changes from a smirk to something darker, just a black gaping slash against a white backdrop. His eyes are dark and dark and dark and dark and -

“ _ **B**_ _O_ **O** _ **.**_ ” You stumble back, away from what's now all white. He'd moved closer, the milky blankness of his face blocking out everything else. You shake your head, swift and violent, and he chuckles. When you turn back to him, you don't meet his eyes. “C _are_ ful NOw, _**are**_ N't y **O** u?” You don't reply, suddenly coming to the realization that he was a threat, not something to be annoyed at. This cat and mouse game – well, lets just say you weren't used to being the mouse.

You side-eye him as he steps closer, tensing and pooling magic - “ _he_ h, I **su** ppOSe yOu can Learn; _**On**_ ce _bit_ ten, twI **Ce s** hy?” He circles around you, too fluid for you to do anything but follow. He meets your eyes with glee, and you duck away. “i **su** POSe the Only question Is: w **h** at bit _yOu_?”

You realize too late that his speech had been getting less and less garbled, and you watch with horror as he unfurls – terrible, dark tentacles reaching out, jagged ends sucking up all the light, surrounding you, surrounding you, surrounding you – and then he's standing there, a slim black figure with clear edges, a white face, and a wide grin, and you can't help but feel you've made a terrible, _terrible_ mistake.

He sticks out a hand – as murky dark as the rest of him, something so familiar and tempting and wrong and bad and - “I'm **Gaster**.” His smile isn't winning; it's a close approximation if that approximation was made by a psychopath who hadn't had human contact for quite a few years.

His awful smile doesn't waver, and neither do his eyes, locked on yours like two black beacons, so dark and – you pull yourself out of it this time, right before you could get truly stuck. His grin widens, taking up over half his face, and you feel vaguely sick.

You try to take his hand anyway, and are surprised to find it as incorporeal in this form as it was in his other. It does feel like cold algae though, and you yank your hand away. “You know who I am.” You spit at his grinning face.

“I s _u_ p **poS** e I do.” His voice was barely even distorted now – it was definitely odd, with all the static and volume changes – but not _that_ odd.

It should've been appreciated – the lack of a grinding noise meant your headache had stabilized, for now – but all you could muster up was the sickening feeling you'd somehow let something get way too powerful.

You didn't stare at his eyes for a long moment. The ground wasn't interesting, but you were focusing on the unfortunate events that had gotten you to this point anyway.

“Would you mind leaving?”

“And I _ha_ _ **d**_ thOUght you w _eRe_ too _**smArt**_ to _as_ K.”

You stare at him, shake it off when your thoughts start spiraling. His grin actually looks pleased for a second. The fact that a black slash cutting through a white face could even look pleased is horrifying. The fact that any of this is happening is horrifying.

Well, there's really only one thing you can do – try to get some information. “Why are you here?”

“Be _ca_ _ **u**_ **se** _s_ _ **ome**_ _one_ ,” And oh boy, the judgment dripping off that word, “nee **ds** a B _ **Aby**_ sitter.”

You quirk an eyebrow and resolutely _do not get pissed._ “Maybe, what I need is to be treated like the adult I am.”

“You're a **C** _ **HI**_ _LD_ t _ha_ t can _**b**_ **u** _ **y**_ al _ **coh**_ ol.”

And oh boy, would Gaster regret those words if he were corporeal.

Since he's not, the trees regret it in his place. Your house is gaining quite the impressive clearing around it.

* * *

 

You try to ignore Gaster, and it works wonderfully – until he decides he has some reason to comment on you loafing around. These range from the incredibly helpful yet still annoying, “You _le_ ft the fridge op **En**.” to the completely uncalled for and extremely annoying, “If you lay on that _c_ _ **o**_ **uch** any longer, _**I**_ am afraid yo _u will_ b **ec** ome a part of it.”

Throughout all of this, his voice slowly evens out, which is both concerning and something that is so confusing and out of your grasp you have no idea how to even handle it. You're sure it means... something. Something bad, most likely. But you couldn't touch him, couldn't even look at him very long without being sucked into a trance, so you just took out your anger on the forest and accepted what you could not change.

* * *

 

Gaster's voice eventually evened out, and the world didn't end. Imagine that.

He did, somehow, get more infuriating. Your magic was being used more than ever before, the forest around your house steadily clearing into rubble and wood chips. It made you feel better in a way you didn't even know you needed, though this interim didn't get rid of your worst habits.

Case in point, the fact that everything was spinning and Gaster was looking more like a good – if annoying – friend than a maniacal demon or possibly a figment of your imagination.

“Y-y'know, sometimes I th-thought that...” You trail off, eyes glued to the pitch black of his eyes. Thankfully, you were used to it now, and you shake it off in another second. “I thought that, um. I thought that the monsters were all fake. L-like, like fake like you were fake; like just another delusion of my parents.” You shake a little, realize afterwards it was something resembling a chuckle. “Looks like I was wrong on all counts?”

It wasn't supposed to be a question, but it became one. You didn't think Gaster would grace it with an answer – he rarely did, especially when you were slurring all your words. But he almost looks softer for a moment before saying, “So you've accepted I'm real?”

You cackle now, laughter staying far longer than it was welcome. “Not much else I can do.”

All his softness is gone, leaving black, black, black.

“No.” You fall into the darkness, let it swirl around you, “There isn't.”

* * *

 

Gaster followed you everywhere. He seemed to have no respect for – well, for anything. Basic decency. Making a modicum of sense. Leaving you alone while you were shitting, godammit. Anything humans found important – anything distinctly human, for that matter.

While you shopped, he insulted everyone, and everything. You had to catch yourself defending people: the few times you'd screamed about how it didn't matter someone had cat hair on their jacket, or was stumbling through the streets, or had laughed like a banshee (though the laugh had been quite annoying) the person – and quite a few around them – had looked at you with wariness even you hadn't been subjected to before.

When they realized it was you, however – well. Wariness was certainly better than outright terror.

So you learned to hold your temper, even when he had the audacity to comment on your shopping choices. Yes, you knew you had 21 cup o' noodles – it was because you didn't want to have to experience shopping with Gaster again for at least a week.

* * *

 

The thing was, Gaster was scary. You hadn't been scared by much in a very long time, but he was – he was something awful and otherworldly. There were no guides on how to deal with that.

So the question you wanted to ask – the only pertinent question, really – never left your lips.

It should've.

(You would've liked the answer.)

* * *

 

“You have your father's eyes.”

It really should've been so innocuous, such a little statement that you're sure the better half of the population would've preened under, but when Gaster locks eyes with you and utters those words, you can't help lunging at him. He's incorporeal, as always, but the wall that separates the kitchen and living room sure wasn't and it breaks like crunchy butter as you fling through it.

Really, you shouldn't have reacted so badly – Gaster's voice hadn't even been mocking (though, perhaps, that was part of the problem.) and it had been a long, long time since your parents had disappeared.

You really were (Should've been?) over it, but the destruction you leave in your wake that day is enough evidence to the contrary.

Maybe it was the proof – because you had known, mostly, that this was the darkness. The thing _they_ started talking about and then never really stopped. But you hadn't _known._

The broken wall in your house gives you inspiration, because if you make a shield around you and shoot through things – well, they break. Quite satisfyingly.

That is, until you decide to test your limits and shoot through three trees in a row; you had been aiming for four, but as it turns out, there was a concrete wall after the third. Your shield shatters like sugar glass against it. You're pretty sure your shoulder has also shattered like sugar glass, and perhaps a fair bit of your arm after that, because it's twisted the wrong way in front of you and that simply can't be good.

Your magic responds when you ask it to, which is really the only thing that's gone well in this situation, but you can already feel the edges of your world blurring.

You hiss as your arm cracks back into place, starting from the wrist. You don't think you finish before the dark wins, and your last thoughts are of Gaster and how desperately you want to slam through him like the broken trees around you.

* * *

 

This desire has yet to abate when you come to and the fucker is standing right in front of you. You jerk, and immediately fall back. Your arm was definitely not entirely healed. It was most likely barely healed at all.

Gaster has the audacity to look disappointed. He's not talking to you when he murmurs, but you catch a snatch anyway, “ - really getting too unstable -” and then it's all darkness again.

* * *

 

Gaster's still there when you come to again, so cold you're sure you've died and the afterlife just involves a lot of being frozen. He sounds sort of foggy and far away – just like everything, really.

“-need to heal yourself.” You catch the end, and try to turn a glare at him. It sort of works, but moving makes your neck scream out, and it's dark and quiet and so cold it hurts. “Hey!” you're suddenly so grateful his voice doesn't sound like a blender and warp gate had a baby anymore, because even at the smooth tone it was at, it was super fucking annoying.

You make some grumble noises at him – if they had been words, they would've been supremely indecent.

“Heal yourself.” You mumble something and turn away, only to find Gaster's face an inch or so from yours. “ _Heal yourself.”_

“Urgh...” You don't really have the energy to argue. Your magic floods your body, and suddenly all the pain is a sharp ache, and then gone. Gaster's muttering to himself – his words are starting to garble again. You don't know if that's a good thing.

“G _o_ **i** _ **n**_.”

“Wha-What?” You felt immensely better – but still dizzy.

“G _O_ I **N**.”

“I didn't actually –“ You realize what he meant halfway through, the shed you'd broken your arm on looming up behind you.

It was also the shed where your parents had...

Well.

Let's just leave it at: you certainly weren't going in.

 

You didn't even need to argue with Gaster about it - a yell cut him off neatly, stopping both of you in your tracks.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, guys. Sadly, I no longer have the time to reply to every comment. I do however read them all, and will probably respond to some in the backlog after this chapter is posted. Anyways, late Happy Holidays - or just the winter season, if you don't celebrate anything. Any feedback is appreciated <3


	22. Optimism Never Got Us Anywhere Good

It was painfully familiar – too familiar, really, to be anyone else.

Or maybe too loud. You'd never met anyone else who could quite reach those decibels.

You're running, of course – sprinting so hard the world was a blur around you; sprinting so hard that dull pain shoots up your legs and makes a home in your hips. It didn't matter – you desperately tried for just a little more speed, just a little more distance.

And then – there he is. Papyrus.

 

Just Papyrus.

 

Alone.

 

You're sprinting so hard you have to skid around him to avoid smashing right through him, but he grabs you in the middle of it and turns it into a wonderful, bone crushing hug.

“HUMAN! I HAVE MISSED YOU SO MUCH!”

You couldn't even be upset that he screamed that directly into your ear, because you seconded his statement with so much fervor. You made sure to tell him so, in screams and shouts and a boisterousness that bounced back and forth between the two of you. It was nothing like a conversation, just a circuit of energy and noise and affection. Loud and lovely and better than anything you could remember of the last months without them.

Eventually, you were both collapsed in a breathless lump on the ground, out of breath and so deeply happy.

 

But.

 

It couldn't have lasted, because Papyrus was here alone.

 

“Human...” And at the solemnity that Papyrus rarely provides, you assumed you'd get an explanation for his solitude. You also assumed that you wouldn't like it. “What... has happened here?”

 

It appears you assumed wrong.

 

You gape at him. It takes a moment for the question to process, another for you to garner the answer of 'nothing happened here?' but that moment was all you needed to glance back and see what he meant. You do a double take; then slowly look around with new eyes. You hadn't bothered to close the door when you left – rage will do that to you. But it being opened revealed your entryway, and... things had not gone well for it after the skelebros left. There were bottles scattered down it, both broken and unbroken (though the glass had been swept to the sides. You weren't a complete degenerate.). Three holes crawled down the wall from a particularly angry night, and the other wall had it's wallpaper almost completely ripped off from you drunkenly trying to stay upright (You hadn't like the wallpaper much anyway, but that was beside the point.). Mud was tracked in, caking the floor an inch deep in some places. You're sure there was mold under the floorboards - not just from the smell, also from the black tendrils that creeped in the cracks. The light was beyond shattered – there was no evidence it had ever been there, besides a hole and some wires.

You had known what it looked like, but for the first time since they'd left, you actually _cared._

“Ah...” You fumble for a response, staring at the mess you'd grown accustomed to. After everything... it had just been too much to clean. You'd never been much for cleanliness in the first place – clean clothes and clean dishes, that's all you needed. And while you didn't spend every waking moment fucked up anymore... you certainly spent quite a few moments like that. It was enough to slip into apathy.

It was enough to cause that look on Papyrus's face.

“There was... a burglar.” A look you've never seen flashes across Papyrus's face, before it slips into incredulity. “A, um.” You glance away, even though you know it's a tell. “An alcoholic burglar.”

“HUMAN...” And then he sweeps a pointed glance down your body. You blush hard, before actually looking down and... oh.

Well.

You hadn't particularly had a reason to care how you looked recently, but you probably should've found one. The entire front of your shirt was stained – by a variety of different things, if the colors were to be believed. You didn't actually know when you put this shirt on, but it had been a long second and it was certainly worse for the wear. The neckline sagged unevenly on one side, drooping below your collarbone – which gave you pause, because you're almost sure it hadn't looked like that before.

On further examination, it may not be that your shirt was stretched, and instead that you had gotten eerily thin.

Things you should probably notice.

Flashbacks of Gaster nagging you to eat swirl through your mind. You'd forgotten about him in your rush for Papyrus, but when you catch eyes with his... voids, he's looking shell-shocked. Terrified, even. It was... not a look you'd seen on him before.

You had no idea what to make of that, and thankfully you don't have to come up with one, because Papyrus is turning you around and suffocating you with overt affection. Well, hugging you. It was basically the same thing, when Papyrus was doing it.

“I, the Great Papyrus, extend my humblest apologies that we left on such short notice. I can see this has affected you greatly, and I will do what is in my power to reconcile this oversight. It is in no way an excuse, but me and my brother -”

“Had a war to fight. I know.” Papyrus looks sadder than you've ever seen him – tired and dull, even wearing the brightest orange you think you've ever encountered. Being left wasn't easy. You're sure fighting a war wasn't either. “It's okay Papyrus. I-I would've maybe liked a g-goodbye, but...”

“We never could've left you if we'd said goodbye.”

“I-I'm sure.” It's a weak little half-sob, quite possibly the worst sound you've made in months. You try to rally, and come up with, “It's okay Papyrus. You don't have to do anything – I already forgive you.” And it's true. Of course it was.

Right?

Your emotions weren't properly sorted, and when you looked to the only person who'd smacked some sense into you these past few months... He wasn't there. Gaster was gone. 

You hadn't realized he'd become so omnipresent that _not_ seeing him would effect you, but a churning combination of relief and loss settles in your stomach. It's uncomfortable, so you do what you do best and push it away, to focus on more important matters.

“Paps, I am so, _so_ happy to see you.” He beams; you sniffle. “But, well.” And suddenly your gut is roiling and you know, somewhere in you, that you don't want the answer to this question. You take a deep breath, then another, and it's not enough to steady you – but if you give yourself any more leeway, you might never ask it at all. “Where's Sans?”

Papyrus' face falls.

It's worse than anticipated.

“He's... dead?”

Another look you've never seen before passes over his face – you wonder how many of those you're going to get now, with everything gone to such shit. You think you can understand it, the mix of horror and anguish and terrible, terrible, emptiness, and he's hugging you so tightly you think you'll burst like an overripe fruit.

You didn't realize you'd been so lost in the whirlpool of _nonononononotSansnothimneverhim_ you didn't notice Papyrus parroting your thoughts back at you.

“No, no, no, no –“

“Not dead?” Your voice is a hopeful croak. You'd started crying again somewhere in all of that; it stains Papyrus' clothes a burnt umber.

“Not –“ And then his voice hitches.

 

“You don't know.”

 

“No. I don't.”

 

You're both openly sobbing, gasping and hugging and not-mourning, because if Papyrus doesn't know then Sans is alive, dammit. There isn't another option. You wouldn't let there be another option, you'd destroy the whole world, smash it till it reverted to dust in space, floating forever in punishment for letting something like this happen to someone like him. You'd break logic and science or turn back time or kill so many people you became a god or devil or anything, anything that could bring him back, could kill hurt maimtorturemurder...

It's like getting cold water thrown over you, when you realize those thoughts were exact same swirling-sucking-pulling that looking into Gaster's eyes too long did. You shoot up, but he's not here, not infecting your mind with poison, so that's you, all you.

“Human?” You aren't used to Papyrus sounding so small. It's another stab of pain along the almost unbearable squeezing in your chest.

“You don't know.” You gasp in a breath, heaving and spluttering. His eye sockets are wide and sad, and you tighten your hold in reassurance. “You don't know, so we're – we're gonna make sure that he comes back. If there's any way in hell we can get him back – anything, any way, whatever it takes – then we're getting him back.”

“But what if –“

You cut him off. You don't want to hear it. “We'll at least know. We'll know and then we can –“ _bleed them dry out destroy the worldkillall_ – You start out of it again and resolve that you'd have to ask Gaster about that, whenever he decides to show his stupid face again, because murderous trances are not what you signed up for. Not that you'd signed up for any of it, but the sentiment was there. “We can go from there.” You finish, ignoring Papyrus' look.

“OH, HUMAN!” Despite your imminent deafness, hearing Papyrus at full volume fixes something in you that you didn't know was broken. “I KNEW YOU WOULD HELP, I NEVER HAD A SINGLE MOMENT OF DOUBT.”

You had a premonition that meant someone, somewhere had said you wouldn't. Your mind flashes a picture of the blue fish lady at you – but really, of course not. Instead of dwelling on any of that, you just affirm to Papyrus that you would indeed do everything – anything. He thanks you profusely and neither of you can seem to stop crying, even though you know every second laying in a puddle here is a second you're not finding Sans.

“So – so...” You gasp out. Hard questions swim behind your mouth, but you _need_ answers, even if it hurts. “So you don't know where he is because – because he's been kidnapped?”

“THAT IS... indeed our best guess. Sans would've come b-back, i-if he could.” Paps turns big eyes on you – looking for reassurance, maybe.

You didn't know why he'd need it. “Sans would _always_ come back to you if he could, Paps.”

His face breaks – something terribly, terribly bittersweet marring it. And then you're both openly sobbing again.

When it's died down to smatterings of hiccups, you ask another question – one that's less hard, thank god. “What's the plan? I'm assuming you and whoever else is in this war effort has at least an idea of one.”

“AH, YES! I HAVE BEEN ASKED TO BRING YOU BACK TO BASE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. I AM SO EXCITED FOR YOU TO SEE IT, ALPHYS HAS IT ALL DECKED OUT WITH SUPER COOL STUFF!”

Seeing Papyrus excited again melts you, and you have to fight the urge to break into tears _again._ Instead, you rally and say, “Great, I just need to get some necessities – I won't be long at all. Er, did you come here in a car?”

“YES, HUMAN! A FLYING ONE, AT THAT!”

Your mouth opens and closes without any sound coming out, so you decide to just not comment. “Alright, well, uh –“

“DO NOT WORRY HUMAN, WE SHALL BE WAITING OUTSIDE!”

 

“Thanks, Paps.”

* * *

 

Gaster is standing in your room, because of course he is.

 

“ _You._ ”

 

He turns – he's smiling. There's nothing pleasant about it. The moment stretches on too long, thick and tense.

“Are you just not going to explain the random murderous rages I get now? The murderous rages I get after you fucking hypnotized me or whatever weird shit –“

He laughs. He actually sits there and laughs. At you.

You'd kill him, if you could.

“ _That's_ what you're worried about? And you're blaming it on me? Oh, this is rich.” You try to talk, but he just talks over you. “Sorry, I forgot how ignorant you are – no, you will not be getting a word in edgewise. You will not do anything but listen to and obey what I'm about to tell you – yes, you will – because I know more than you. I know what's best for you – for Sans – for the world.”

“No, you –“

“ _ **ShuT uP!**_ ” His voice is screeching metal and cracking earth, and miracle of miracles, you really do shut up. “You are going to go down into that shed. You are going to do that right now, before anything else.”

“No.”

“You stupid, **fUcKIng** – look. You need to go in there. You need to _see_. It's the only way you're going to be able to save Sans; it's the only way you're going to be able to save yourself.”

“If you think I am going to willingly go into the shack my parents tortured me in – well, you've got another thing coming. No. I refuse. I will not be getting anywhere near it except to _destroy_ it.”

“If YoU Don'T I W **iLL** have _T_ o DO SomethINg _M_ ucH m _O_ _ **R**_ **E** **UNPLE** A _SAN_ T.”

You're clutching your ears by the end of his sentence – but it's not enough to convince you. Nothing could possibly be. Especially because: “You aren't even corporeal. There's nothing you can do to me. This conversation is over and I said **no**.”

“You waNt to t _ **ES**_ _T_ _**M**_ **E?** ” You square yourself to him and send him your hardest face. He looks almost human for a second – big eyes and a sad mouth, something distinctly alive. The mix of determination and guilt rolls your stomach, but you keep your jaw set and your eyes hard. “You _do_.”

He breathes in and out. You didn't even know he needed to breathe.

“I'm sorry.” He sounds defeated. You edge towards the door, not liking this turn of conversation. “I never wanted to do this, but everything has gotten so – so fucked.” And he somehow sounds like he's going to cry, this darkness monster thing that invaded your house and mind. It's enough for you to sprint out, necessities be damned. How necessary could they possibly be?

He meets your eyes before you can. The swirling thoughts are easy to break out of – but you aren't quite fast enough.

He grabs your soul.

And tugs.

It's too easy for him to pop it out of your chest. You'd held it there, as safe and secure as possible, for _years._ Incorporeal demon beast or not, he shouldn't have been able to just – to just pull it right out, like it was nothing!

But he did it. It didn't matter what you thought, because your soul was floating between you and Gaster.

“Listen to me.” You heard him – it was deathly silent otherwise, how could you not? But you heard him like you hear a T.V. that's been on too long. “Y **o** U _Ar_ en _ **'T**_ LisTe _Ni_ _ **n**_ **G**!” 

It was almost enough to draw you out of it – back to a land where your brain would give you more to work with than _ohgodohgodohgodohgod_ – but it wasn't.

It wasn't enough to tear you from the sickening lurch of your world. It wasn't enough to stop the hurricane in your ears. It wasn't enough to stop the sticky desert in your mouth, the taste of bleeding, dying things left out to dry.

Because your soul was in front of you – horrifying, disgusting, broken and brutal. You'd forgotten how terrible it looked, pushed away the knowledge that it was you, the twisting, agonizing essence of _you._

“ _ **LISTEN.**_ ” That got you gaping up at Gaster – and when had you fallen down? “Do you see this? Do you understand what it means?” He shakes your soul, just a little. It wrenches something undefinable in you, an unnecessary reminder that yes, this sick gob of broken bits was _your soul._ “Of course you don't; I wouldn't have to do this if you'd just _use_ your _brain_ for once.” You don't even know how to be offended. “The same brain as your parents – you really should be much smarter. They were brilliant – geniuses, the both of them, yet somehow their offspring is – you. Somehow, you skipped all the intelligence and went straight for the emotional constipation.” He levels a look at your soul.

It's an awful menagerie, inconsistent and dripping; all jagged lines, colors too bright to be beautiful, contrasts too severe to cause anything but a headache.

“They did something no one else has ever been able to do – they did so many things no one else has ever been able to do. And one of them – many of them – is you.” He sighs, and your soul is suddenly almost touching your noise, sick and weeping in front of you. Black seeped through the cracks breaking up fluorescent hues. It ran down the sides in thick rivulets, pooling at the bottom like it would drip off – but not falling, not ever. Just an endless fountain of deep, terrible black.

A black you now knew.

A black you'd never connected before, never once thought about, because you'd been too busy pretending you were more than your soul. More than a monstrosity.

More than their creation.

“Do you finally understand?” You thought you did. “You aren't human. Do you hear me? You are _not_ a **human**.”

Staring into the cracked, multicolored well of void in front of you – yeah. Yeah, you supposed. That was not a human soul. You were not a human.

You puked.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er. Welcome.   
> It's really not going to get much better.   
> Abandon ship, all ye who just wanted a romance.  
> I hope my attempts at humor weren't too misplaced.   
> <3 to everyone who comments, I've been slowly working me way through and replying


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